


Hard to Starboard

by Actual_Pixie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Character Deaths, Danarius being an Asshole, M/M, Memory Loss, Slave Fenris, the Unsinkable Varric Tethras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Pixie/pseuds/Actual_Pixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After winning passage on to the luxurious ISS (Imperial Steam Ship) Somniatis in a lucky game of Wicked Grace, Fereldan refugee Garrett Hawke saves the life of recently recaptured and amnesiac slave Fenris, unknowingly entangling them in a romance that may just be doomed from the start. </p><p>(AKA the Titanic AU no one asked for).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank the lovely catswort on tumblr for helping bring this idea to life! :D Thanks for fangirling with me and I hope you do something with this idea too because it is too perfect!

Hawke had never seen so many stars.

Granted, on the road the past few months he’d hardly taken the time to lay down and gaze at the sky. The life of a Fereldan refugee turned mercenary-for-hire didn’t allow for such luxury, and he wouldn’t be the sort to indulge in such a dreamer’s pastime even if it did. If there’d been spare time enough that lounging around gazing at the night sky was actually an option, there was definitely something more constructive to preoccupy himself with.

Alas, being stuck on a boat for two days did not leave him with anything more constructive to do. Oh he supposed he could have joined Isabela and Aveline for cards and a round or four of drinks - the money they’d won in the fateful game of Wicked Grace that guaranteed their passage on this fine vessel had seen that they could pass the entire trip inebriated if they so desired. Eventually he’d probably do just that, but for once it was nice to take a moment just for himself; to recline against the finely polished wood of the upper back deck, gazing up into the infinite night sky, and dream of a future that did not involve running from Darkspawn, losing sisters to tainted Ogres, or wondering if he could dig up enough work to feed his remaining family the rest of the week.

Things would be better in Kirkwall - at least, that was what Hawke told himself. Had he only to think for himself, he could have kept up his nomadic existence in Fereldan, leaping village to village, never lingering long enough to draw unwanted attention from Templars. But it wasn’t just him, and he could not afford to selfishly cling to his homeland - even if it was his last attachment to his late father and sister. His mother and younger brother needed stability, and by the Maker Hawke would give it to them, no matter what it took.

Leandra Hawke had family in Kirkwall - land and title, even, that she had not deemed fit to inform her children of until just recently. By both her sons’ insistence she had gone ahead several weeks prior, accompanied by Carver, to stay with them. Hawke remained in the Free Marches only to tie up a few loose ends from his last job (as well as secure a means of transportation for himself, but his mother did not know that last bit).

Hawke despised being apart from them, hated that they were so far beyond his reach that should anything happen word would not reach him until too late. He trusted Carver without question; though younger he was a skilled warrior, impressively capable with the cumbersome great sword he favored above all other weapons, and unless overcome by the childish inanity to prove himself a man (which did happen occasionally, usually due to Hawke’s goading) he proved reliably levelheaded. Trusting Carver was not the issue.

Trusting Kirkwall, on the other hand…. Even with the Amell family connection, how could Hawke not feel suspicion over a place called the City of Chains?

Heaving a ragged sigh, Hawke scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d come up here to clear his mind, not bog it down further with concerns. It was supposed to be relaxing, wasn’t it; looking up at the night sky? He couldn’t recall who’d told him that. Maybe Bethany. It seemed like something she’d have suggested, because Andraste knew Hawke made himself sick with worry over his family on more than one occasion.

A streak of silver-blue whizzed by his peripheral, so fast and silent Hawke thought it a mere figment of his imagination until he hurled himself into a sitting position and watched the bright blur catch itself on the ship’s guard rail. Hawke blinked rapidly, the strange light gone now and only a slender human shape remaining in its place. 

_What in the name of Andraste—?_

All thought cut off when the person hoisted himself onto the railing and swung a leg over the side. Then instinct overrode all else, and Hawke was on his feet, making his way to the end of the ship as quickly but quietly as possible so as not to frighten the stranger into doing anything rash.

 Evidently his stealth needed work, for Hawke was still a fair distance away when the stranger’s head whipped around and oddly reflective eyes pinned him with an accusing glare. The first thing Hawke noticed, aside from the unsettling eyes, were the long, pointed ears. Suddenly the predicament made a lot more sense. This was no human, and despite the fine looking clothes he wore there was only one designation for an elf riding first class.

Hawke raised his hands in the telltale signal of submission. The gesture did not ease the wary tension in the slave’s body, but he didn’t scream or let go of the railings so Hawke took it as a good sign and tentatively approached. He did not speak even after he’d settled his hands right on the railing.

The elf stared at him for a long moment, until he seemed to assess Hawke would not interfere. Then he wrenched his gaze away, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath. He closed his eyes, slowly exhaled and— _nothing_.

Hawke smiled, emboldened enough by the display to believe whatever had driven the elf to the metaphorical edge was not enough to send him hurtling over the literal one just yet, and gingerly brushed the tips of his fingers against the nearest hand clutching the railing.

The elf flinched instinctively, and Hawke knew the only thing keeping him from wrenching his hand away entirely was the sight of the waves crashing into the ship some hundred feet below.

 _It’s not worth it_ , Hawke wanted to say; _whatever has brought you to this point, it is not worse than this fate_. But the words remained stuck in his throat, choked off by the suspicion that it was selfish of him to even think such a thing. Did he only consider jumping a worse fate because he would be the one to witness, and he was sick of the people around him dying while he stood by helpless?

Surprisingly, it was the elf that spoke first, his voice deeper than anything Hawke could have imagined. It was almost absurd, the low baritone from this slight, fragile-looking man, but at the same time oddly fitting.

"I do not want him to have it." 

The words, as well, were not what Hawke had thought to hear first from the stranger. He expected anger - and certainly there was, hidden beneath a veil of resignation and self-reprimand. He expected to be ordered to leave, because really this was none of his business.

Hawke remained silent, merely watching the elf watch the sea. An ocean of emotion swirled in the depths of those green eyes. Hawke had always found elven eyes disturbing, bigger than human eyes and with acute night vision that made them seem to glow in the dark. Rather than unnerved, he found himself drawn in by this particular set of eyes, however, and could not look away.

"These markings," the elf continued at length, calling attention to the white lines in his skin. What he had initially mistaken for Dalish tattoos Hawke was now close enough to recognize as scars, slightly raised from the skin and imbued with a captivating blue iridescence. "He chased me halfway across Thedas just for them. I don’t think he’d care if I died, so long as his investment was still in tact."

Well, if nothing else, that explained the melodramatic suicide plan. Whoever the elf referred to would have no hope of reclaiming his ‘investment’ if it sank to the bottom of the Waking Sea. Still…

"Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf." 

The stunned expression on the elf’s face alerted Hawke that he’d accidentally let the inappropriate flirtation slip out of his mouth. More incredible than the abrupt disappearance of his brain-to-mouth filter, the elf actually _laughed_. 

Well, ‘laughed’ was putting it strongly, but the elf’s lips quirked upward and a short, dry chuckle bubbled up from his throat – very obviously the laugh of someone unaccustomed to laughing. Hawke felt sorry for him - sorry for anyone to whose life denied such a simple joy. Things had been rough for his family ever since the Blight that lost them both home and father, but they’d still found ways to smile. 

"My name is Hawke." Hawke inclined his head slightly in greeting. "Garrett Hawke." He waited, but the elf only stared at him. "You know," he wheedled gently, "it’s typically polite to give your name during an introduction."

"Perhaps I see no point in an introduction, given the circumstances," the elf replied, his tone clipped. 

Hawke studied him another moment before deciding, “you won’t do it.”

The amusement slipped from the elf’s face as quickly as it had appeared, expression sharpening into an indignant glare. “What do you mean I won’t do it,” he snapped. “Don’t presume to tell me what I will or will not do. You don’t _know_ me.” 

"True enough," Hawke conceded with a small shrug. "But the way I see it, if you were serious you would have done it already." 

The elf’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the railing. “You are distracting me,” he hissed. “Go away.” 

"Afraid I can’t." Hawke ignored the little snarl from the elf and began unbuttoning his traveling cloak, a memento of well-worn druffalo hide passed down from his father. "I’m involved now. You let go, and I’m just going to have to jump in there after you." 

The elf scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” When that did not garner reaction, he added, “you’d be killed.” 

"I’m a good swimmer," Hawke answered simply, shrugging out of the coat.

 "The fall alone would kill you."

Hawke peered over the edge. The waters were relatively calm, but that did not mean the depths beneath were not tumultuous and hungry to suck down any poor soul unlucky enough to try them. “It would hurt, but honestly I’m more concerned about the water being so cold.” 

A brief flicker of worry crossed the elf’s dark features. He hesitated a moment before he asked, “how cold?” 

"Freezing, I’d wager, even this time of year. You ever been through a Ferelden winter?" 

The elf blinked at the sudden question, his mind still clearly wrapped around the freezing waters below. Hawke picked up on the slight tremor that passed through the slender body. “W-what?”

Toeing off his boots, Hawke explained: “we have some of the coldest winters around. I grew up near Lothering, that’s not even the far south, and I remember when I was a boy, my father took my brother and me ice fishing out on Lake Calenhad. Ice fishing is where you—”

"I know what ice fishing is!"

Hawke raised his hands, contrite, though he didn’t believe the snarled response for a minute. Just one look at the elf’s bronzed features was enough to give his Northern blood away, never mind the obvious Tevinter accent. Hawke doubted the elf had ever even seen snow, much less been ice fishing. “Sorry. You just seem like, you know, kind of an indoor elf.” Green eyes narrowed spitefully at him, so Hawke assumed he’d hit the nail on the head. “Anyway,” he continued, “I fell through some thin ice; and I’m telling you, water that cold, like right down there…” He shook his head, shuddering as he recalled the sensation. “It hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can’t breathe. You can’t think - at least, not about anything but the pain.”

The elf looked rightly horrified by the description, the color having drained entirely from his face. His mouth dropped open when Hawke gripped the railing tightly and made to hoist himself up. “What are you doing?” 

Hawke sighed heavily. “Like I said, I don’t have a choice. I’m just hoping you’ll come back over the railing, get me off the hook here.” 

The elf shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

"I’ve certainly heard that before, but with all due respect," Hawke pointed out, "I’m not the one hanging off the back of a ship. Come on." He let go of the railing in order to extend his hand to the elf. The elf’s gaze slid uncertainly to the open palm, large eyes flickering back and forth between hope and distrust. "C’mon," Hawke urged gently, as if to a frightened Mabari pup. "Give me your hand. You don’t want to do this."

Several tense seconds passed where the elf weighed his options, and then his hand slid hesitantly into Hawke’s. Hawke smiled, tightening his grip around trembling fingers. “There you go. That wasn’t so hard. Can you turn yourself around?” He was sure he could pull the elf over this way if need be, but the effort would be easier if the elf was facing him, and the elf seemed like the type to want to do this himself anyways. 

The elf shifted one foot, turning his head slightly to glance behind him, the cool night breeze sending his silver-white hair into disarray. “Fenris,” he said suddenly. There was a little smile pulling at his lips again. “My name. It’s Fenris. Now we are politely introduced.” 

"Well thank the Maker you’ve regained a sense of decorum," Hawke teased, rewarded by another of Fenris’s short bursts of laughter.

With his hand clasped securely around Hawke’s, Fenris allowed himself to be slowly guided around so they were facing one another, separated only by the railing.

"Good," Hawke encouraged, "good. Now just climb over. Slowly... There you go..." 

Fenris was just about to raise his leg over the highest rail when suddenly the strange markings on his body flared to life. Hawke couldn't accurately describe what happened next, much less how; it was all a blur, a whirlwind. In the blink of an eye Fenris's leg somehow passed _through_  the railing, and then he was falling, a panicked shout tearing from his throat. Hawke threw himself forward, gripping Fenris's wrist with both hands. Fenris's wide eyes brimmed with terror as they locked on Hawke's, and his legs kicked frantically, scrambling to find purchase on the back of the ship. 

"Easy— _easy!"_ Hawke tried to calm him, but Fenris only struggled more. "I've got you. You're going to be fine."

"Don't let me die, Hawke—!"

 _Don't let her die, Garrett!_  

A desperate plea he had no intention of failing twice. Hawke swallowed thickly, battering down old regrets and feelings of inadequacy, and squeezed Fenris's hand. "I won't let you go; I _swear_ it. But I need you to work with me, understand?"

Fenris nodded shakily but obediently went limp. His body dangled over the freezing water, and while horrifying to think his life rested quite literally in Hawke's sweaty hands, Hawke only focused on hauling the elf up. The muscles in his arms strained against the dead weight - the elf heavier than his slender frame suggested - but a few good pulls and Hawke managed to get him over to the correct side of the railing.

"All right?" He asked, still holding Fenris's hand in both of his. 

Fenris's markings flickered in response, and he cried out in alarm as his body pitched forward. Hawke caught him as he fell, but the elf's sudden weight made his knees buckle and together they collapsed in a heap on the deck.  

"How is that possible?" Hawke murmured, eyeing the shimmering brands on Fenris's left arm, which had solidified once more. Fenris only winced in pain. "Do they hurt?" 

Fenris clenched his eyes shut against the hand Hawke cupped around his cheek. "They—"

"What's going on up here?" An authoritative voice sounded from several feet away.

Footsteps approached, and then harsh lamplight illuminated them to a small congressional of two guards, a dwarf, and several nobles who clearly wished they were still lounging in the parlor. The guard holding the lamp leered as he spotted Fenris. "A bit far from steerage, aren't we, elf?" 

The comment wasn't even aimed at him, but Hawke bristled. "If I wasn't mistaken, the mid-decks are open to all classes," he snapped. The guard only scowled.  

"Is that him?" 

Fenris stiffened at the new voice, fingers flexing into the front of Hawke's shirt before releasing as he was hauled bodily to his feet by the guardsman. "Looks like the one you described, lord Danarius. Best put a proper leash on him." With that, he shoved Fenris toward a gentleman wearing distinguished robes of Tevinter design. Hawke took in the voracious dark eyes and hooked nose and instantly disliked the man. 

"Fenris, my pet." The man reached out, taking Fenris by the shoulders and looking him over for any sign of injuries - or was he checking the brands remained in tact? Hawke fought down the urge to deck the smug bastard and pull Fenris back to safety, because somehow Fenris in the arms of this man seemed more dangerous than dangling over the side of a ship.  "You gave me quite the scare." His eyes slid over to Hawke, narrowing in distaste. "And _you._ Ferelden, are you? What makes you think you had any right to lay your filthy hands on my property?"

Hawke knew he needed to be smart. This was not Tevinter; Danarius's title should have held little sway aboard this ship. But the word of a nobleman would always be held in higher regard than that of a third-class nobody, and Danarius could see him locked in a holding cell below decks and jailed once they reached shore if Hawke did not play his cards right. And yet the words came spitting out of his mouth: "Fenris is not—"

"Please, master," Fenris interjected, head bowed and eyes lowered in the picture of subservience. If Hawke had not witnessed for himself the rebellious spirit that burned behind Fenris's eyes he would not believe it existed. That flame was doused now; the spirit collared. "This man did not attack me. He... He saved my life."  

Danarius's gaze followed Fenris's as the elf glanced over to the railing where just minutes ago he'd contemplated ending his life. Fear dashed across his features briefly. "Fenris?"

Fenris did not meet his eyes - or Hawke's, who was subtly trying to get his attention so he could be clued in on just what the elf was doing.  

"I was leaning over the railing," Fenris explained. "I'd hoped to get a look at the... the, ah..." His voice trailed off, the correct wording failing him, but he made a whirling gesture with his hands. 

"The propellers?" The dwarf supplied, amused. 

Fenris smiled – a perfect, practiced smile that did not reach his eyes. "Yes, the propellers. I had heard my master and Magister Alexius discussing how the propellers make the ship move, and I thought it so incredible I wanted to see them for myself."

Hawke's mouth hung open in disbelief, his surprise mirrored on the faces of the guards and Danarius alike. 

"The propellers?" The one who spoke now was a woman, dark-haired with a vile twist to her mouth that soured her otherwise pretty features. She cackled as if this was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard in her life, looking Fenris over with naked disgust. "He wanted to see the  _propellers_!"

Color flooded the elf's cheeks, the tips of his ears even glowing faintly with embarrassment, but he continued with the lie nevertheless. "I leaned over the railing, trying to see, and I... I slipped. I surely would have gone overboard. It was lucky Messere Hawke happened to be taking a walk. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to safety."

"Well," the dwarf said, clapping his hands as if Fenris's testimony settled the matter. "The man's a hero then." He came over and gave Hawke a friendly smack on the lower back. "Good on you." 

Judging by the way his focus shifted back and forth suspiciously between Fenris and Hawke, Danarius did not share the sentiment, but he conceded with a tactful hum. "Hadriana," he said after a moment, and the noblewoman came to stand at his side. She squawked in protest as he worked a jeweled ring from her little finger, then presented it to Hawke. "Something for your troubles." 

Hawke just stared at the ring, not really sure if this was a setup or if the man was truly so arrogant. 

"That ring is an heirloom," Hadriana cried, incensed. "It's worth far more than the life of some idiot slave!"

Danarius rounded on her, eyes blazing. "Are you questioning me?" Hawke didn't know their relationship but it was obvious Danarius held power over her, for she immediately backed down. "Go tell Varania he's been found." Hadriana did not need telling twice; she hastened away, heels clacking against the floorboards. Once she was out of sight, Danarius turned his attention back to Fenris. "As for you. From now on, you will not leave my sight unless commanded. Is that clear?"

"Yes, master," Fenris answered meekly. "Forgive me."

"We shall see."

With that, Danarius turned on his heel and started walking toward the double doors leading to the ship's main atrium. Fenris followed behind him, looking over his shoulder only once to catch Hawke's eye. There was gratitude in his expression, but also a silent plea for Hawke not to further involve himself in this affair.

It was a request Hawke wasn't sure he could comply with. 

"Fenris!" Danarius called, expression close to murderous as he caught the slave staring back at Hawke. Fenris jumped and hurried after his master.  

"Now wait, Magister," the dwarf spoke up. "This is the slave we've heard so much about - your most prized possession? Surely he's worth more than a mere bauble?"

Danarius sneered. "What, pray, would you suggest as recompense, Varric?"

The dwarf looked Hawke over, grinning. "Invite the man for dinner. Tomorrow night. He can regale us with the tale of his heroic rescue."

It was an appalling idea, but Danarius had no way to refuse without making himself look bad. If Fenris was so important to him, by all means he should be offering Hawke much more for saving the elf's life. Danarius smiled thinly. "That would be delightful. You'll sit at our table." He leered derisively at Hawke's threadbare shirt and torn-up trousers. "I trust you'll find something appropriate to wear. Come along, Fenris. You will attend me in my suite."

"Yes, master." 

They made their departure, Danarius's hand coming to rest purposefully low on Fenris's back in a sign of possession. 

"Incredible," Varric spoke up, after the guards had also taken their leave.

“Excuse me?" 

"It’s incredible,” Varric said meaningfully, “how in the short span of time the elf fell, you were able to remove your coat and shoes." 

The complete lack of accusation in the dwarf's tone relaxed Hawke, and he smirked down at the man. "What can I say? I'm very quick." 

"As I'm sure all your lovers can attest." Varric held his gaze a moment, just long enough for Hawke to wonder if he was being accused after all, and then burst out laughing. "Andraste’s tits, I'm joking. With a master like that, the elf would have to be stupid _and_ suicidal to let anyone touch him, and I know he's neither of those things."

"You know him well?" Odd, because there'd seemed no familiarity between the two. Unless Fenris had been hiding it?

Varric frowned a little. "Somewhat. Though if you asked the poor sod now he wouldn't remember."

Well that was... disconcerting. 

Before Hawke could pry, the dwarf waved his hand, dismissing the subject entirely. "Ah well. Doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done, and now it looks like I have a new ignorant fool to rescue."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "You mean me?"

"Of course I mean you. Do you have any idea what you've gotten yourself into?" 

Hawke smirked. "Come now, ser dwarf. Do I honestly look like a man who plans ahead?" 

"Ho boy." Varric patted Hawke on the arm, steering him toward the double doors. "You're going to need more help than I thought."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading along, and to those of you who left comments/kudos! :) I really appreciate it!

Fenris tried unsuccessfully not to flinch as the cold water crashed over his naked back. It reminded him of the treacherous depths of the Waking Sea, cool night air ruffling his clothes, assaulting his face with the bite and sting of salt.

_"It hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body."_

He thought of a young boy slipping through thin ice, the panic and desperation and pain, and wondered if it would be any more agonizing than a ceremonial dagger dragging over his flesh in intricate, purposeful designs, than lyrium consuming him from the inside out – than a warm hand clasped around his own, the humiliation of needing rescuing, and the hope that the concern in Hawke's eyes was real and maybe he was worth _more_ than what Danarius had made him. 

He wondered why Hawke cared enough to risk his life for a slave. He wondered what ice fishing was, and wished his pride hadn't gotten in the way of learning. 

"It could have been warm, if you only had the sense in your head to stay put," Varania reprimanded. 

She was his sister - or so she said. The idea did not _feel_ wrong, and even the lowliest of slaves had to have family _somewhere_ , but aside from the slender build and straight nose that seemed inherent to most elves they did not share many physical similarities. But she seemed to know things about him, things only family would, and even though Fenris had no way of discerning if the information was true or not it did not feel like lies either. 

Varania brought a washcloth over his back, careful as she traced over the markings. "I don't understand what you were thinking, why you do these things. Do you care nothing for your life? For mine?"

Fenris swallowed and wrapped his arms around his legs, bowing to touch his forehead to his knees. The bathing tub was barely large enough to hold him. Listlessly he imagined himself floating atop the rolling waves, letting himself be pulled under, and was ashamed by how much the idea still appealed.

_"You won't do it."_

_You don't know me. You can't know, not when I don't even..._  

"I am sorry." Though he wasn't sure if he was apologizing to his sister or for making Hawke believe him stronger than this. 

"No you're not." Varania's voice was soft, but she applied more pressure to his skin, making him wince as her nails scraped over the scars. "You have no idea - you never did. The things I had to go through, what mother and I did just to stay alive..." 

Her voice trailed off, though Fenris wished she would continue, wished she would bare her heart instead of shut him out. Why did she have to do those things? Why weren't they together, where Fenris could ensure their protection? "You should have come with me."

Varania laughed - dry, humorless. "You think running will solve everything, that freedom will get you what you want." Now the bitterness seeped in, the harrowed fatigue of a young woman who'd faced the same defeat too many times. "There is no freedom for people like us. No matter where we go, Leto, we will always be slaves."

 _Leto_... The name she called him sometimes. The name that was apparently his, given at birth. Danarius did not let Varania use this name with him in public, but sometimes she let it slip when they were alone together, and almost always it lanced through Fenris. He should remember; he should know what his mother and sister went through, why Varania seemed to resent him so much.  

His bath continued in silence. As Varania soaped his hair, scrubbing at his scalp with more force than necessary, Fenris closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of warm honey and vanilla, too sweet for his liking but apparently what Danarius preferred. 

"Master Danarius has promised to make me his apprentice," Varania said suddenly. The news did not come as much of a surprise. He could sense the magic lurking within her, feel it like an itch under his own skin; his lyrium brands tingled in response to it. "It is an unprecedented honor. An elf has never held standing in Tevinter."

"And you really think that's what he'll give you?" Fenris couldn't help his skepticism. Varania was the one who insisted they'd always be slaves, after all. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw by the thin, worried frown marring her face that he was not the only one with doubts. 

"I will not let you jeopardize the chance," she answered finally. 

He should not have expected any less. Varania hardly treated him with warm sisterly affection, but still he had hoped that maybe someone regarded him as more than a tool for their own ambition. "You'd sell out your own brother to become a magister?"  

Varania's green eyes turned hard, and the fingers tightening in his hair were the only warning she gave before she plunged his head down into water almost as cold as her words: "you're no brother of mine."

After he was cleaned and toweled dry, another slave came in to massage him with soothing elfroot balm - a daily evening ritual, part of the markings' upkeep - and then a thick oil that made his skin glisten invitingly, all the while with a pitying look on her face that made Fenris's heart sink. His anxiety only grew when Varania reappeared in the room with a fine robe of black silk. The cool fabric hung purposefully loose about his narrow frame, the neckline, embroidered with red swirls reminiscent of the lyrium brands, cut low to reveal more of his chest than necessary or even appropriate by Tevinter standards.  

By the time he was deemed presentable, the urge to throw himself from the balcony had more than resurfaced; it clawed at the back of his mind desperately, made his eyes sting as he was ushered to the adjoining room where Danarius awaited him. Hawke was wrong, so very wrong. There were fates worse than death and he'd succumbed to one the moment he'd let the Fereldan take his hand and pull him back onto the ship. 

Danarius, dressed now in his burgundy evening robe of fustian velvet, lounged on a plush leather chaise near the roaring fire in the suite's receiving room, eating candied figs from a small tray on the table before him. His eyes lit up when he spotted Fenris, and he beckoned with one hand. 

"Look at you," he breathed, taking in Fenris's body appreciatively. Fenris knelt before the chaise and bowed his head, fighting not to shy away when Danarius combed his fingers through his still-damp hair. "You're a vision as always, my pet. So hard to stay angry with such a face."

"I am sorry to have displeased you, master," Fenris said, the words hollow. He kept his focus trained on the carpet. "I humbly beg your forgiveness."

Danarius considered him for a long moment, reaching languidly for another fig and biting into it. He took his time, chewing thoughtfully, letting Fenris squirm. "Do you think you deserve forgiveness, Fenris?" 

His other hand continued to brush through Fenris's hair, knuckles scraping lightly over the tips of Fenris's ear every so often. Had it been anyone else (and as if to punish himself Fenris's mind supplied Hawke's big, calloused hands) the touch might have been welcome, pleasurable even; as it were, the shiver that coursed through Fenris's body was purely one of revulsion. 

He did not have an answer for Danarius, only because he knew forgiveness came from mercy, and magisters seemed to possess little of that. 

"Stand." 

Fenris did as ordered, keeping his arms as his sides and eyes on his feet even as Danarius sat up and slowly eased the robe's tie loose from  its knot. He fought the urge to cover himself when the robe parted, but to do so would upset his master, whose gaze roved hungrily over the exposed skin. Danarius licked his lips, rising to his feet to stand before him and forcing Fenris's chin up with one hand.  

When Fenris tried to lower his eyes again, Danarius clucked his tongue. "I want you to see." 

Fenris gasped as suddenly the sleeves of his robe were jerked down, Danarius twisting the fabric and using it to pin Fenris's arms behind his back. He spun Fenris around roughly, Fenris stumbling ungracefully as he was forced up to a full-length mirror propped against the nearest wall.  

"Master-"

" _Look,"_ Danarius commanded, caging his arms around the elf - one around Fenris's hips and the other at his neck, fingers applying slight pressure to the windpipe. Fenris could feel the hard length of his master's arousal against his lower back, and his cheeks colored with humiliation. "I want you to burn this into your mind, little wolf: you are _mine_. The lyrium under your skin is mine. Your body is mine. Your very life and soul belong to _me_." His hand constricted around Fenris's throat and Fenris choked, arms straining against their silk bindings. "Do you understand?"

Tears stung Fenris's eyes but he could not cry - refused to cry. 

" _Do you understand_?"

Fenris's lungs burned, chest tightening, and he wished he had the courage to rebel enough to at least fall unconscious. But instead he wheezed out an affirmation, and hated himself for his relief when finally Danarius eased his grip. 

Satisfied, Danarius shoved him roughly to the ground. Fenris curled in on himself, breaths ragged, hands automatically going to his throat to rub the bruised skin. He was left in this undignified state, Danarius bending only to retrieve the silk robe from where it had pooled beside Fenris's feet before stepping over him and striding out of the room.  

\- - -

"Honestly, Hawke, you're the only person I know who could get into a situation like this."

It was the following afternoon, and he'd just now gotten around to relaying the previous night's events to Isabela. She'd been miffed to discover Aveline already heard the story, but Aveline hadn't singlehandedly consumed nearly a full bottle of rum during the evening and thus had been up when Hawke set out early that morning to prowl the upper balcony in search of a certain elf. 

"You were supposed to be sharing that bottle with me," Isabela complained. "Not taking on another job!"

"It's hardly another job. I saved his life. He would have died if I hadn't been there," Hawke pointed out.  

"And that's wonderful." Seeing that Hawke did not find humor in her sarcasm at the moment, she continued earnestly. "Really, I'm glad he's not floating face-down on the currents. But it's over now. _Finito_. You shouldn't be out here looking for the guy." 

Hawke just kept walking. "I'm not looking for him." 

"Of course not. We're just strolling the first class deck, completely out of place, purely to get reactions from people." 

"Don't act as if you don't like the attention."

Isabela tossed her hair, winking suggestively at an older gentleman who stared at them as they passed. "You know I love the attention. But don't pretend that's why we're here."

"Your suspicion wounds me," Hawke said, placing both hands on his chest. "I'm here on invitation by one Varric Tethras. The real question is why _you're_ following me."

"Well obviously if you were going to see him again, I want to get a good look at this elf. He must be really something if you were willing to practically throw yourself overboard to save his life."  

"There was no 'practically' about it," Hawke said, grimly recalling the panic that seized him as Fenris slipped and he lunged after him. There was also no question about Fenris being attractive, even with the scars and big elven eyes. 

"What a brave hero you are." Isabela shifted her focus to something behind Hawke. "And I can see why. White hair, tanned skin, killer tattoos...  _Oops_ …" Before Hawke could turn and look for himself, Isabela pushed his shoulder none-too-gently, sending him stumbling into the nearest group of passengers. 

Luckily, he didn't fall. But it may have been because Fenris was there to catch him. The two elven women on either side of him gasped, equal parts affronted and worried how this might be turned around and blamed on them. 

"Oh, Hawke, I'm _so_ sorry," Isabela said, all feigned concern as she helped Hawke right himself. She brushed imaginary lint from his coat before she turned to Fenris. The elf was staring at them, his eyes wide and trepid. "My, my. He _is_ something."

"Fenris." Hawke stepped in front of Isabela, blocking the elf from her interested gaze. Not that it made a difference, as Isabela merely shifted around him, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched the admittedly awkward interaction. "Are you all right?"

Fenris kept his head bowed. "I am fine, Messere. Thank you. I never... " He hesitated, obviously unsure if it was appropriate for him to continue. "Last night, I never did thank you." 

"There's really no need to."

"No," Fenris disagreed. "You—"

"I did as any decent man would."

"Fenris," hissed one of the female elves, a redhead. Her moss-green eyes narrowed suspiciously on Hawke.

Hawke continued as if she hadn't spoken. "But perhaps you do not know many decent men?" 

Fenris rewarded him with a little snort of laughter - then immediately blanched, horrified with himself, especially when the redheaded elf admonished him with a stern, " _Leto_!"

"I must go," he mumbled, stepping back, all meek submission once again. "My master is expecting us." 

Hawke nodded. "Of course. Will you be at dinner tonight?" 

Fenris glanced at the other two elves uncertainly before he answered. "I usually accompany Master Danarius when he takes his meals, yes."

Well that certainly made the idea of dining with stuffy nobles far more appealing. Hawke flashed a grin. "I look forward to it then."

A light blush tinted Fenris's ears. He swallowed and then gave a little bow to excuse himself. "Messere."

"Hawke," Hawke insisted. 

"Hawke," Fenris repeated, smiling a little. 

Hawke tipped his head and waved a good-bye. The elves hurried away, the redhead's hand clamped tightly around Fenris's arm as she steered him around the corner. 

"Garrett Hawke," Varric's voice bellowed out suddenly. It never ceased to amaze Hawke how _loud_ dwarves were. "Just the man I wanted to see!" As he approached, his eyes swept up and down Isabela - probably taking note of her lack of pants. He seemed neither offended nor predatory in his gaze; in fact he looked amused when their eyes met. "Varric Tethras, at your service." 

Isabela leaned against the guardrail, eyebrows raised in clear interest. "Hawke makes such interesting friends. You wouldn't happen to be _'Swords and Shields_ ' Varric Tethras?"

"The very same. You a fan?"

"Maker, no!" Isabela laughed. "They're atrocious." 

If it was the book series Hawke was thinking of, he had to agree. But ‘ _Swords and Shields’_ did prove interesting to read – and sometimes reenact – while intoxicated. "She keeps them in a box under her bed," Hawke whispered conspiratorially to the dwarf, smirking. 

With a huff Isabela dropped the pretense. "Fine, it's true, but I stole them from Aveline first." 

Hawke had difficulty imagining the straight-laced Aveline hoarding smut fiction, but he supposed everyone had their guilty pleasures. 

"Always nice to meet a fan," Varric said. "Even if they have horrible taste."

"I don't think you're in a place to judge my tastes when you parade around wearing that," Isabela countered in mock-offense, nodding to the low-cut neck of Varric's shirt. 

Varric's expression turned suggestive. "I'll let you run your fingers through it, if you want."

"Your chest hair?" Isabela asked, just for clarification. "My fingers?" She made a show of steadying herself against the railing, one hand going to her heart.  "Oh, stop! You're making me quiver."

"You know you want to."

"I don't see how any woman could resist the desire," Isabela purred. 

Varric heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I know, it’s a terrible burden. But I'm afraid I'll have to leave you wanting. Bianca is the jealous type."

While Isabela pretended at heartbreak, Hawke tilted his head to the side. "Bianca?"

"I'll introduce you later," Varric promised, waving a hand dismissively. "As for right now, I believe we have a dinner to prepare for. Come with me."

Varric extended an invitation to Isabela, but she claimed to have designs of her own involving a cute Dalish girl to see to for the evening. Hawke didn't put up a fight, as frankly the less Isabela knew about his plans the better. He loved the woman nearly, and she'd been a great help to him and his family when they'd needed it most, but she seemed to enjoy complicating circumstances for him. 

"Seems like you lead an interesting life, Hawke," Varric commented as they made their way down the ornately decorated hall of first-class suites. 

Unlike in steerage, the floors of the upper deck were carpeted, the walls papered tastefully in gold and ivory. Candelabras lit the passage uniformly, and each door was carved of sturdy, polished mahogany. Hawke tried not to look to impressed with it all, but was fairly sure his attempt at nonchalance failed when Varric opened the door of his suite. 

"I certainly don't get bored," he said at last, quite sure there was more than a hint of awe leaking into his voice. 

The suite consisted of three rooms: the receiving room where they stood now, with a fireplace and lounging area as well as small dining table, then a bed chamber and a private bathing room, all lavishly decorated. 

Unsurprisingly, given Varric's profession, the room was littered with books. Stacks of hardcovers piled along the floor while loose papers covered all available surface areas. Taking up a great deal of space on the leather chair beside the fire was a finely crafted and obviously well maintained crossbow. 

"Spotted Bianca, I see. She's quick to draw the eye."

"Bianca... is a crossbow."

Varric went over and proudly ran a hand along the weapon's pristine surface. "Don't go falling in love with her now."

"I wouldn't dare come between you." 

"Smart man. Now–" Varric rubbed his hands together, looking about— "let's see about some clothes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering who the other characters' Titanic counterparts are.... Well, take a guess. I'll tell you if you're right. I'm sure most are pretty blatant. ;) 
> 
> If it's not obvious by this point, Fenris has had his memory wiped by Danarius after his re-capture. He remembers only a bit of the ritual that gave him his markings, and the fact that he is a slave. Everything else is information he's been told. This accounts for why he may seem a tad OOC at times; I intended to make him slightly more of the "compliant" Fenris Danarius writes to Hawke about if you give Fenris back to him in-game, while still retaining little sparks of his rebellious spirit that resurface from time to time (probably more frequently as the story progresses). ^_^


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look it's the infamous staircase scene.

"I was right," Varric proclaimed, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. "It fits perfect!"

Hawke adjusted the sleeves of the borrowed suit jacket, turning to the side to study his profile in the full-length mirror. The fine clothes - probably worth more then his and his family's entire wardrobe combined - and pomade Varric had used to try and tame his unruly hair had rightly transformed him into a gentleman who would not look an ounce out of place in the first class dining hall. 

"Pretty close," he marveled. The jacket was a bit snug particularly about the shoulders, suggesting it was tailored to a narrower frame, but leaving the buttons undone kept the expensive fabric from pulling uncomfortably. Above all, the deep brown leather shoes - easily the most comfortable things to have ever touched Hawke's feet - fit the best. "Out of curiosity, who does all this belong to?" 

"Friend of mine," Varric answered vaguely, which did nothing to explain what the clothes were doing in his room to begin with. A lover, perhaps? But no; disregarding the strange way he talked about his crossbow, Varric seemed more the perpetual bachelor type. 

"And he's fine with you just lending his clothes out to poor refugees?" Usually Hawke found the wealthy were not so noble in spirit, barring Varric - and with him it felt like there'd be a catch eventually. 

Varric laughed. "He'd better be, considering I bought it all for him."

Hawke's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Maybe he wouldn't rule out the idea of a lover after all. "Is this someone who might be offended by my presence?"

"What? Why would he - oh." Varric pulled a face. "I know I'm irresistible but Blondie's not my type. He's a... Healer, if you get my meaning. I'm helping him get to Kirkwall."

It surprised Hawke to hear this. Why would Varric risk his reputation - heck, his life - to help an apostate refugee? 

The answer came simply:  _same reason I risked mine to save the life of a slave._

Perhaps there were more good men in Thedas than Hawke gave credit for. 

"The elf..." Hawke hedged, pretending for a moment as if the name escaped him, as if the slave hadn't occupied his thoughts a majority of the day. "Fenris. You were helping him too, weren't you?" If Varric made a habit of helping penniless runaways and claimed to have known Fenris beforehand, it wasn't too much of a leap.  

Varric nodded grimly, moving over to the wardrobe where he rummaged for a change of clothes for himself. "Met him on the road a few months ago. Proudest, grumpiest bastard I ever met. But not heartless. He was trying to barter for a room in some run-down tavern and the proprietor started getting handsy. Minute I saw what he could do with a sword I told him, 'you're hired!' 'For what,' he asked. I said, 'come to Kirkwall and find out.' And he agreed." Here Varric dropped his voice in mimicry of Fenris's deep baritone: "'Beats this shithole.'" 

Hawke tried to equate this aggressive warrior with the timid slave that he'd encountered, and decided the rebellious spark in Fenris's eyes that appeared from time to time was that caged aggression striving to break loose. "You had work in Kirkwall for him, then? Legitimate work?"

Varric smirked. "You take me for a crook?"

Hawke looked away, wondering how much trouble he'd land in if he were to be completely honest. Did Varric strike him as a ruthless criminal? No. But he did give the impression that his stumpy dwarven fingers were in a lot of pots, and not all of them legally.  

Thankfully Varric saved him the trouble of finding out by bursting out laughing. "Good to know you're not completely daft after all!" He shrugged on a clean but equally tacky shirt that revealed more of his chest hair than probably anyone at their table tonight would care to see. "Aside from an unparalleled author, I'm a business man. Born and raised in Kirkwall. Got a lot of connections, and no, not all of them have the cleanest reputation but they are always in demand for a skilled warrior. Not that I would have passed Fenris on to any of them. I'm planning a little expedition with my brother, was actually in Ferelden looking for others to join our venture."

"And Fenris was to be your hired muscle," Hawke surmised. 

"Doesn't look like he could do much, does he?"

"If I'm being honest, it seems like a gentle breeze would be enough to knock him over."

Varric nodded his agreement. "He's deceiving that way. When I met him he had this greatsword on his back, looked like it weighed more than him and he swung that sucker around as if it were a feather! Fucking brilliant fighter..." His voice trailed off and he sighed in obvious disappointment. "Shame, really. " 

It was a shame. Hawke did not even know the elf and he mourned for the fragile hopes and dreams that had crumbled far too soon. "What happened?" 

Varric shrugged, making light of his obvious regret over the situation. "Danarius caught up with him," he answered simply. "Don't know how he tracked us down - wouldn't put blood magic past him. But he used Fenris's sister to bait him, and by the time we realized it was a trap there was no way to get out of it. Fenris may be a brilliant fighter, but we were outnumbered. Three of us against all Danarius's men  _and_  the demons he summoned? Anyone could see it was hopeless. Broody didn't even put up a fight."

Selfless, then, even if he was proud. 

"If we'd fought," Varric continued, as if he had to explain his reasoning, as if Hawke did not understand having to make the tough decisions for the benefit of others, "we probably would have died, and Danarius would have taken Fenris anyway." 

"Most likely." Or Danarius would have skinned Fenris's corpse for those brands, but Hawke had a feeling Danarius was attached to more than just the elf's carcass. He could see it in the magister's eyes - possessive hunger. "I take it you're here to help him? Too much of a coincidence for you to just happen to end up on the same ship." 

"A clever man never puts stock in coincidences." Varric pulled a brass watch from his trouser pocket and whistled. "Time to go. I'll walk you as far as the lift, but I think it's best you enter the atrium on your own."

Hawke would have figured the opposite, but the subtle machinations of the upperclass were beyond him. He had no choice but to trust in Varric's expertise. "Lead the way."

 

\- - - 

When Fenris first boarded the Somniatis with Danarius and the small entourage of slaves and personal guardsmen that seemed to accompany him everywhere, he'd been afraid his primary function would be to serve as the jewel on his master's arm. Not that Fenris thought so highly of his appearance, but the looks the other slaves gave him - including Varania - and the way Danarius himself looked at him did nothing to instill Fenris with the confidence to expect anything else. 

Aside from the previous night when Danarius saw fit to educate him on his place, however, Danarius never touched him. Oh, he stared - quite openly, and he did nothing to dissuade the common belief that Fenris warmed his master's bed - but so far the desire in his eyes had yet to manifest physically. Fenris did not know whether it was a good or bad sign. Once, he'd served as his master's bodyguard; Danarius could not entrust him with that task again just yet - he claimed Fenris's actions in the past wounded his heart, and that it would take time for that trust to rebuild - but still he required Fenris to accompany him. Little by little, he said, Fenris would earn back his place, and eventually the right to carry his sword again. 

Not that it would make a lick of difference, as Fenris could not even begin to imagine the strength it would take to wield the monstrous greatsword that apparently belonged to him.  

Troubling as his lack of memories was, what concerned Fenris most was what exactly Danarius wanted of him. If no longer trustworthy enough to serve his duty as a guard, and for some reason untouchable in a sexual setting, what purpose did he have? Why track him halfway across Thedas and drag him back to Tevinter? Was it only for the lyrium in his skin?  

Why not just kill him and siphon the lyrium from his body? 

Fenris sighed, glancing at his reflection in one of the polished statues lining the halls. He'd tried very hard not to look at himself this day, as every time he did he saw Danarius's arms around him and felt a phantom pressure of the magister's hand on his throat. It was no different now, and seeing the long indigo and gold-embroidered robe that hugged his body did nothing to lessen the sense of being a possession.  

_"No matter where we go, Leto, we will always be slaves."_

He would feel better if Danarius permitted him to wear armor. At least then there would be no misinterpretations. He would still be seen as a slave, but at least a slave with dignity and purpose, not one who merely hung off his master's arm. But no; armor was forbidden to him as well for the time being. Rebellious slaves did not deserve rewards, and Danarius insisted Fenris could call upon his markings for protection should the need arise. 

Presently his master walked several paces ahead of him, offering false smiles to those he considered equal to his standing. He expected Fenris to follow and Fenris did, albeit slowly, unseen and unheard unless called upon, aware he'd been primped and paraded around for the shock value and nothing more.  

_"Will I see you at dinner tonight?"_

Fenris ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it down, then stopped suddenly, heat creeping into his face as he realized what he was doing - who he was doing it for. What should it matter if Hawke would be present at dinner this evening? If anything, Fenris should be mortified at having to see him again - especially like this, dolled up like some courtesan - not battling anxious butterflies in his stomach.  

But he _was_. He was anxious - _excited_. He wanted to see Hawke, wanted Hawke to see _him_ , and... And Fenris did not know. He could not recall ever experiencing such emotions in the past (he swallowed down the rise of bitterness _that_ dredged up), and while he was aware one dinner would not change anything it still did not stop the breath from catching in his throat as he descended the grand staircase in the atrium and caught sight of the Fereldan. 

Hawke stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking completely at ease among the nobility, as if he'd dined here every night. Danarius actually nodded at him in greeting as he passed, not even sparing a second glance for the man he'd spat fire at for daring to touch 'his property' the night prior. 

The suit Hawke wore was a bit snug, but not entirely ill fitting. As Fenris approached, however, he noticed the amiable smile on Hawke's face was not directed at anyone in particular, and that the gloved hand extended in a polite shake never met another. He halted on the marble landing before the final few steps to watch, quietly amused, as Hawke turned a bit to the left and inclined his head politely in greeting as he practiced shaking another invisible passenger's hand. 

Perhaps Hawke wasn't so at ease as he appeared. 

Endeared by the sight, Fenris descended the remaining steps, lightly clearing his throat as he approached the other man. Hawke froze, and then grinned sheepishly as he noticed who'd caught him. 

"Charming," Fenris commented. 

"I do try. Unfortunately it doesn't always come as natural to me as others." 

Fenris disagreed; he found Hawke plenty charming. Thankfully he managed to keep from blurting that information aloud. No need to embarrass himself in the man's presence more than he'd already done in the past.  

"So." Hawke rubbed his hands together, sweeping the room surreptitiously. "What happens now? Varric said he'd meet me here but he seems to have disappeared."

"He is probably busy spreading rumors about you to the other guests," Fenris said, the words coming automatically as if they were facts everyone should know. "He likes to do that."

Hawke tilted his head to the side, frowning a little, and Fenris looked away, his own brow furrowed as he wondered what would possess him to say something like that. "Does he," Hawke asked. 

Fenris swallowed, blinking rapidly as he racked his brain for an answer. "I... I don't know, actually," he admitted. It just seemed right, seemed like something Varric would do. But how on earth would Fenris know what was characteristic of the dwarf? They'd barely exchanged a nod of the head in greeting since boarding the ship, which near as Fenris could tell was the only place he could have encountered Varric. "He seems like the type, I suppose."

For a moment Hawke appeared sad, his eyes softening about the corners as he studied Fenris. Blushing and wishing he'd just kept his mouth shut, Fenris looked down. Then Hawke said, "You're right about that," and laughed, and offered Fenris his arm as if it were the most natural thing to do. "Shall we?"

Fenris stared. When it registered that Hawke was indeed speaking to him and this wasn't just some strange dream, he shook his head, backing up. "I cannot - that is, I am not permitted. Master Danarius-"

"I believe, if I'm not mistaken, I am Magister Danarius's honored dinner guest for the evening. It would be quite rude of you not to take my arm." Hawke winked. "I'll even tell him I gave you no choice in the matter."

Fenris's lips parted, but he could not find a voice with which to speak. Hawke actually wanted to walk into the dining hall with him - Maker,  _escort_ him - as if they were _equals_? 

"Unless you truly don't wish to?" Hawke began lowering his arm, forehead creased with worry. "I would never actually force you."

"No," Fenris whispered. He held out his hand, surprised to find his fingers shaking a little when Hawke took hold and pulled him close. "No one has ever..." His voice trailed off but Hawke seemed to understand his meaning regardless.  

"Allow me to be the first, then, Ser Fenris," Hawke said softly, bringing his lips to Fenris's hand and pressing a light kiss to the palm. His warm honey eyes twinkled mirthfully as he confessed, "I saw that once in a traveling play and always wanted to do it."

Except this wasn't a traveling play, and Fenris was not some fair maiden with hands delicate and soft. His hands were calloused, roughened from years of hard labor he could not even remember, and there was perpetually dirt under his fingernails, his master was somewhere close by and _he was a slave_ \- how could Hawke continually overlook that? Did he merely pretend it was not so, or did the truth genuinely not concern him?  

Whatever the case, Hawke slipped his arm through Fenris's and - heart racing - Fenris curled his fingers into the stiff fabric of the Ferelden's sleeve.  

Strange. He'd been afraid of this very fate where Danarius was involved, but with Hawke... It did not feel shameful or demeaning in the least, and in fact Fenris enjoyed the subtle warmth of Hawke beside him as he shuffled along next to the taller man. 

Hawke led Fenris through the atrium with confidence; smirking and bobbing his head very slightly at the nobles they passed. They seemed for all the world wealthy young partners, no different from any of the other first-class passengers. The shape of Fenris's ears did not garner even a single slur, and no one broke decorum to stare at the shimmering brands on his skin. 

They found Varric hobnobbing with a group of tittering debutantes and their obviously less-enthused chaperones. 

"And then Hawke says, 'looks like the duke has _fallen from grace_!'"  

Fenris's eyebrows shot up in surprise, an expression mirrored on Hawke's own face. "I did not know you and Messere Tethras were so well-acquainted."

"Nor did I," Hawke whispered back, scratching at his beard with his free hand. "But he certainly is making me sound heroic. And well connected. I don't believe I've ever actually met a duke before."

"Ah, Hawke," Varric called, having caught sight of the pair. He spread his arms in invitation for them to join the little crowd he'd gathered. "I was just regaling my friends here with tales of your escapades."

"Adding a few embellishments along the way, no doubt," Hawke said wryly. 

Varric shrugged as if it couldn't be helped. "Perhaps. I am a master storyteller; embellishing just comes with the job." 

"I think they are fascinating stories," said a young woman in a fashionable red satin gown. Fenris could not get a good look at her face thanks to the ornate mask she wore, but her eyes lingered appreciatively on Hawke. "And you seem a man who can live up to them."

"Curious name," one of the chaperones piped up, his Orlesian accent so thick it made the trade tongue hard to understand. "Are you of the Val Montaigne Hawkes?" 

Hawke only smiled and corrected gently, "the Lothering Hawkes, actually."

The gentleman appeared embarrassed not to have known, but then affected a cocksure air as he nodded. "Oh yes, of course."

Fenris and Hawke exchanged glances, both holding back their laughter. 

A trumpet sounded from the far end of the room, and Varric groaned in exasperation. "Maker’s arse. Why must they insist on announcing dinner like a damn cavalry charge?”

As nobles shifted gradually into the dining hall, the group Varric had gathered around him dispersed to their designated tables until it remained only the three of them negotiating a path to a long table near the stone fireplace at the heart of the room. All but two settings were occupied by the time they arrived to take their seats. Fenris ignored the questioning glance Hawke sent his way as he released the Fereldan’s arm and took a respectful step back.

“Master,” he announced, gesturing as if he’d been the one leading Hawke, not the other way around. He was all-too aware of the magister’s eyes narrowed suspiciously on him, and wondered with a repressed shudder if he was in for a similar lesson to the one he’d received the night before. As long as Hawke was not involved, he supposed it did not matter. “You remember Messere Hawke?”

“Hawke?” Danarius sounded genuinely staggered as he studied Hawke. Did he realize he’d passed Hawke by on the staircase, acknowledged him as a peer? “I did not recognize you. Amazing. You could almost pass for a gentleman.”

Hawke grinned, but it was tight-lipped and false. “Almost,” he said, sliding into the vacant chair beside Felix Alexius. His eyes slid back to Fenris. “We appear to be a seat short.” 

“Afraid not,” Varric muttered, oddly regretful, as Danarius chuckled and motioned for Fenris to approach. 

Fenris took his place behind his master’s chair. The elven attendants of the other two magisters at the table had already done the same and stood with hands folded demurely in front of them, awaiting orders. In perfect coordination, they each took the folded napkin on the nearest place setting and smoothed it over their respective master’s lap before returning to their deferential stance. The magisters at the table paid them as little mind as the wait-staff currently bustling to fill each goblet with deep red wine.

Catching Hawke’s eye across the table, Fenris subtly motioned for him to place the napkin in his lap. To Fenris’s relief, Hawke, though scowling in ill-concealed disdain, did nothing rash like leap to Fenris’s defense or insist another chair be brought for him.

Perhaps there was hope for a smooth evening after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're curious, sitting at the table are: Danarius, Hadriana, Lord & Lady Halward Pavus, Gereon Alexius, Dorian Pavus, Felix Alexius, Hawke, and Varric


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the end of the chapter autocorrect kept changing "Varania" to "Paranoia" and I just found that hilarious.

Much like the foyer and every other part of the Somniatis reserved solely for first class, the dining salon was the height of opulence. Grand chandeliers glittered overhead; the warm glow of their candles throwing intriguing shadows across the artful murals that decorated the wall. Commissioned in Tevinter but built in Orlais, subtle nods to both cultures could be found in the ship’s décor and architecture: the stone columns and fine marble statues that lined the walls clearly Orlesian inspirations, while Tevinter aggrandizements were found in the narrow, high-backed chairs and depictions in the stained-glass windows.

Power and elegance, a truly inspiring and formidable combination, and, if Hawke had to admit, an impressive achievement to so closely intertwine two vastly opposing nations.  

Hawke unfolded his napkin as bid, placed it in his lap, and to the bewilderment of everyone present turned and graciously thanked the waiter who poured his wine.

"My, my," exclaimed the dark-haired woman at Hadriana's right.  "Such manners." She smiled approvingly at Hawke before glancing pointedly to the young man opposite her who bore such a striking resemblance he could only be her son. He was attractive, with dark skin, fashionably coiffed hair, and the most distinguished mustache Hawke had ever seen in his life (to the point where he was actually a bit envious).  

As introductions were made, Hawke learned his name was Dorian and that he was the sole heir of the Pavus house, the Lord and Lady of which sat on the same side of the table as Danarius. Still believing him one of them, Magister Halward Pavus actually shook Hawke's hand, as did Gereon Alexius - the mastermind behind the Somniatis' construction - and his mild-mannered son Felix. 

They were all courteous, albeit very inquisitive of him as a newcomer. Lady Aquinea Pavus in particular delighted in pestering for details on his lineage, which Hawke managed to skirt with easily swallowed explanations of how Fereldans did not keep track of their ancestors as expertly as done in Tevinter. Even with the attention, however, Hawke's focus constantly strayed back to the elf hovering beside the table. 

Hadriana leaned forward in her chair, pretty red-painted lips tilted in a venomous smile. "How are the accommodations in steerage, Serah Hawke?" The question rang above the rest of the table's idle chatter, snuffing it out quite sufficiently. "I hear they're quite good on this ship."

She may as well have proclaimed he had the plague, with the way the other magisters looked at him now - warily, as if he was something foreign and dangerous. Hawke let their prejudiced scrutiny slide off his shoulders, and offered Hadriana a smile in return. "The best I've seen," he replied, outwardly unruffled, before leaning over to assure Magister Alexius, "hardly any rats."

Danarius took a sip of his wine before clearing his throat, hiding a smirk as he dabbed his mouth with a corner of his napkin afterward. "Serah Hawke is joining us from third class," he informed the rest of the table smugly. "He was of some assistance to Fenris last night." 

Several furtive glances were aimed in his direction, not all from their table alone, as a round of whispers circulated. Hawke took a deep breath, studied the absurd little row of differently sized utensils on either side of his plate to distract himself. 

"So, where do you live, Serah Hawke?" Felix asked, his demeanor unchanged even with the news of Hawke's class. Dorian, as well, looked completely undaunted by the prospect of sharing his table with a poor man, and of course Varric had been the one to get him into this mess, so he was silently supportive as he met Hawke's eyes. 

"Well," Hawke began, confidence bolstered. He tapped his hand gently on the pristine tabletop. "Currently my address is the ISS Somniatis. After that, I'm on the Maker's good humor. My mother and younger brother are in Kirkwall. I plan to meet them there, but..." He lifted his gaze, caught Fenris hanging on to his every word, and could not help but wink. "You never know what might happen next."

Hadriana chuckled mirthlessly. "You find that kind of rootless existence appealing?" 

"I do," Hawke said honestly. "Most of my life I stayed in the same small town, never seeing anyone new or meeting anyone different, even though I wanted to. But I learned that you can't just wait around. You never know what hand you're going to get dealt next. See, my father died when I was seventeen, then a few years later came the Blight." Hawke grimaced, shaking his head to dispel the image of Bethany in their mother's arms, the thought of how cold her body felt as he'd laid it on the pyre. "Something like that teaches you to take life as it comes at you. To make each day count."

The table was silent as those gathered considered his words. Fenris's eyes were wide and slightly glassy; Hawke wished he knew what the elf was thinking. 

Finally, Dorian raised his glass in salute. 

"Very well said."

Varric copied him, grinning. "Here, here." 

The rest of the table lifted their glasses as well – Hadriana and Danarius doing so most begrudgingly. 

"To making it count," Dorian said. 

Everyone echoed the words and partook of their wine. Hawke raised his glass a little higher, nodding to Fenris and relishing in the dash of color that brightened the elf's face when he noticed the implication Hawke was toasting in his honor. 

Salads were laid out before each of them. With more silent hand motions Fenris instructed him on which fork to start with, and thanks to his aid Hawke managed not to commit any major _faux pas_ during the meal. Conversation centered on the latest scandals in the Imperium, which Hawke and Varric had no investment in and so could contribute very little to. Every once and a while Dorian or Felix asked for his opinion, or questioned him about King Alistair, but as a farmhand from Lothering Hawke was about as far removed from the Ferelden royal court as it came and had nothing to tell them they did not know already. 

Wine flowed liberally, Hawke barely setting his glass down after taking a sip before a servant was there to refill it again. It made the evening more tolerable. Although not all present company was unbearable, Hawke was fully aware Danarius’s extended his grudging invitation to dinner in anticipation of humiliating him.

By the time the main course rolled around, Hadriana and Danarius had each made several more attempts to point out his third class status - as if the table honestly needed the constant reminder he was not one of them (or even cared once they’d consumed enough wine). When that still refused to get under Hawke's skin, Danarius saw fit to draw Fenris into his lap, feeding him fatty scraps of prime rib from his plate. It was a display a majority of the table visibly found distasteful, but no one said a word - not even Hawke, if only due to the entreating looks Fenris sent him. 

Keeping silent was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do – the urge to defend Fenris far greater than the desire to preserve his own honor - and on more than one occasion he found himself squeezing his knife tight enough to turn his knuckles white. 

He wondered what the punishment might be for striking a magister in the middle of dinner: would they lock him in holding, or simply toss him overboard? Certainly they would kill him if he attempted magic. For Tevinter magisters to display their power was one thing – especially on a ship funded by Tevinter coin – but a Ferelden apostate may as well bring a sword to his own heart. 

Not that Hawke made use of his abilities often; he was born with magic, but knives had always felt more comfortable in his hands than a staff, and if he’d learned anything from his father and sister’s fates it was that magic was often the weakest of defenses. For Hawke, it was something he fell back on only as a last resort; the last time he'd even contemplated casting a spell was to save Bethany's life, and before that it had been years.

"Bartrand had no idea I'd hidden the money in the fireplace," Varric was saying, to the amusement of Dorian and Felix especially. Dessert plates were being cleared from the table as the patrons of the dining hall shifted from idle dinner chatter to more animated, wine-fueled storytelling, so he was forced to speak extra loud around the noise. "So he comes home drunk as a nug, celebrating, and lights a fire!"

The table erupted into laughter – Fenris and the slaves behind Gereon and Aquinea fighting to stifle their own amusement, polite hands covering their mouths, though the dark-haired youth belonging to the Alexius house proved least successful in concealing his nasally snickers.

The gentlemen drained the last of their cups. Around the room men were beginning to rise from their chairs and make their way out of the room, seeming to head in the same direction. Some pulled cigar boxes from within their jackets. 

"Joining us for a brandy, Serah Hawke?" Halward asked, scraping back his own chair as he got to his feet. 

"Ah yes," Dorian said, crossing his legs at the ankle and giving no indication he would rise anytime soon. "Time for the men to retreat into a cloud of smoke and congratulate each other on being masters of the universe. I think I'll pass." 

" _Dorian_..." Halward looked very much as if he wanted to say more, but his wife placed a soothing hand on his arm and an unspoken conversation seemed to unfold between them.

While this happened Dorian's focus strayed to the elf that stood poised to help either Alexius out of their chairs should either of them make to stand, a silent conversation passing between them as well and ending with the elf coughing awkwardly and Dorian smirking. Hawke watched it all, amused.

"Suit yourself,” Halward said at last. He brushed a light kiss to Aquinea’s cheek before standing. “Gentlemen?"

Gereon rose and dismissed his attendant with soft words and a smile. After a final glance in Dorian’s direction, the elf left. Then he looked between Dorian and his son, sighed indulgently, and patted Felix’s shoulder. “Don’t get into _too_ much trouble.”

When all eyes turned expectantly to Hawke, he shook his head. "Thank you, but I think it's time I head back."

"Probably for the best," Danarius said. He nudged Fenris off his lap and stood, Fenris pushing the chair in after him. "It will be all business and politics, things you wouldn't understand."  

 _Smug bastard_. "Definitely for the best then," Hawke agreed, refusing to take the bait. 

Fenris bowed at the waist. "Master. Is there anything you require for your return?"

Danarius considered, dragging his gaze up and down Fenris's body before he shook his head. "No, pet. Go back to the suite. I'll return later."

Thank the Maker for small miracles. Hawke could see the relief on Fenris's face as Danarius took his leave with Gereon and Halward. 

Further down the table, Dorian took out a cigarette and popped it between his lips.

Just after he lit it, Aquinea cleared her throat. "You know how I feel about that, Dorian," she said reproachfully. 

Felix sighed and reached across to pluck the cigarette from Dorian's lips. "He knows." He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray at the table's center before getting up. "Let's find some other entertainment, Dorian. Leave the ladies to their devices."

"Fine, fine." Dorian stood as well. "Sure you don't want to come, Hawke?"

"No," Hawke declined. "I really should be leaving now. Thank you for having me."

"The pleasure was entirely ours," Dorian insisted. Together he and Felix exited the salon in the opposite direction of their fathers.  

Hawke bowed lowly to the women still sitting. "Ladies." They both inclined their heads politely but offered no other words. A subtle shifting in the air alerted him that Fenris had moved - frighteningly light-footed - to stand beside him. Mindful of present company he took the elf's hand, shaking it gently instead of kissing it this time around. "Fenris." Fenris swallowed, closing his eyes when Hawke leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Meet me by the stairs." 

\- - -

He debated over it; he'd have been daft not to. Danarius had given him orders - _return to the room, wait for him, you are only hurting yourself if you do not -_ and he existed to fulfill Danarius's whims. But still his feet carried him out of the dining hall, through the semi-crowded atrium and to the grand staircase where Hawke stood on the landing.

A thrill of excitement rushed through him as he approached, and he had the feeling he stood upon the precipice of change. Whatever happened tonight - wherever Hawke led him - he would not be the same Fenris afterward. 

Was that good or bad? It should be terrifying. If he had any sense at all he would push Hawke away and all the jarring, confusing thoughts and emotions that came with him.  

Fenris laid a hand on Hawke's arm.  

Hawke turned, a mischievous grin lighting up his face and making his honey eyes shine bright. He tilted his head a little, indicating the exit.

"Care to go to a real party?"

\- - - 

He should have been back by now.

Varania paced before the fire, which was well stoked in anticipation of her master’s return, fervently glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.

She was not completely sure how the device worked, only that one hand marked the passing of hours and the other of minutes, and that by this point both hands had moved significantly enough from when Danarius and Fenris left together for the dining salon. She’d attended dinner with her master before; she knew what the several-course meal roughly equated in terms of her evening chores, and when after that Danarius would convene with the other magisters in the parlor for cigars and drinks.

She’d just changed the sheets on Danarius’s bed, and so it was time that Fenris return to the room. And yet the larger hand on the clock had progressed to hover over another number Varania still hadn’t learned (Danarius promised he’d teach her soon, always _soon_ , letters and numbers and things she would need to know as his apprentice) and Fenris never made his appearance.

It did not matter how many times Varania tried to harden her heart to the young man who wore her brother’s face. Fenris was not Leto, had not been since he volunteered to compete for the accursed lyrium under his skin. At first she’d tried to convince herself her brother was dead, or that she’d simply never had one to begin with.

But then Fenris looked at her, his wide green eyes so like their mother’s, and she was reminded of afternoons spent frolicking in their former master’s gardens, of peeling apples their mother brought them from the kitchens as a special treat – bruised or under-ripe or otherwise unsuitable for the masters’ use – and the utter delight on Leto’s face as he wolfed down apple flesh and rind both and even sucked on the core to savor his favorite snack a small bit longer.

Fenris was not Leto, and yet, now especially – without his memories and the caustic, all-consuming wrath that accompanied them – he was so much like her brother it _hurt_. 

Varania left the double suite, cloak pulled about her shoulders, unsure of where to look – only that she needed to find Fenris before Danarius realized he was missing.  Her mind conjured up the worst of scenarios, and they preyed on her fear that her brother may have succumbed to the Waking Sea’s frigid allure as she’d been told he’d almost done their first night aboard the Somniatis. 

_Fenris is not that weak. Danarius designed him not to be so. But Leto..._

Gentle Leto, who always played the brave knight but cried over scraped knees... Varania was not so sure if this new Fenris was more her master’s wolf or the little brother she’d once known. She was afraid to find out the answer.

A door down the hall opened. Varania could not read the room number but she knew to whom it belonged, although she was surprised to find neither Magister Alexius nor his son the ones leaving. 

“Elyan.”

The boy stiffened, and for a moment it seemed he might bolt, but then he sighed, shoulders sagging as he turned around too face her. His eyes were a strange violet-blue and she could sense the untapped potential of his magic brimming beneath the calm exterior he tried presenting to her now. Another pretender, this boy, but not so good at the game as Leto had been. As she approached she could see the subtle tremble of his defiantly curled lip. Scared. Naïve.

“Where are you going?”

Elyan forced his gaze to the plush carpet beneath his feet, wiggling his bare toes in a bid for time. 

“I was just...” His voice, betraying his Dalish heritage by its accent as much the vallaslin feathered across his cheeks and forehead, trailed off. He wet his lips, eyes traveling slowly to another door further down the hall.

Varania looked as well and the answer came to her plain as day.

However much the family tried to keep it hush-hush among the nobility, throughout Tevinter’s serving class Dorian Pavus was notorious for his inclinations toward handsome young men. An insatiable thing, flitting from lover to lover without so much as a backwards glance or spared thought for the hearts broken in his wake. She did not know if Elyan was the latest of his conquests or just another slave hoping for favorable attention - and honestly if he wanted to reduce himself to being nothing more than a pleasurable way for an Altus to pass time it was none of her business.

_So young..._

“You should return to your master’s suite.”

An intelligent slave would have done just that, but in a show of either youthful courage or stupidity Elyan puffed out his chest and took a step back. “You are not my master; you cannot command me.”

Varania almost admired the spirit of those born outside of the Imperium, but she knew that when those spirits finally broke it was far more painful. “I am telling you for your own good.”

Elyan pulled a cowl over his head and arranged it to conceal his ears – a rather pointless disguise, as his tattoos were still visible. “Save your concern for your own flesh and blood.”

“You’ve seen Fenris?” Varania rushed to the boy, and Elyan flattened himself against the nearest gold-papered wall. “Where has he gone?”

“He was with the Fereldan – M-Messere Hawke,” Elyan stammered, and then pursed his lips, guilty to have revealed the information so easily. “He seemed happy.”

 _To the Void with happiness._ Fenris was a fool – a complete, utter fool – and he would threaten everything she’d worked so hard to ensure for their future. Once upon a time, Leto made the ultimate sacrifice for his family and it had not pandered out how any of them anticipated; now, when Varania had the chance to make things right – to become a magister, to _truly_ earn freedom and buy it for her brother as well, a freedom no one could ever rescind, he risked it all – and for _what_? Some penniless Fereldan dog lord with nothing to offer.

No. Varania would not have it. She’d worked too hard to track him down in this blighted cesspit of a country, suffering the disgrace of being forced into servitude again, and the absolute betrayal on Fenris’s face when he learned she’d helped bait him into recapture.

She would not let the sacrifices she’d made go to waste. Whatever blossomed tentatively between her brother and the Fereldan, Varania swore to put an end to it _now_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if we ever learn the name of Dorian's mother in Inquisition, so for now I've created one for her. If I somehow missed it, please inform me and I'll edit the scene with her in it. (edit 3/29/16: now we know her name so it's been changed! )
> 
> Speaking of Dorian, I absolutely adore him and though I know my description of him in Varania's scene seems rather harsh please remember it is a slave's interpretation of his character. 
> 
> Also bear with the indulgent cameo of my Inquisitor, Elyan. He is my precious son and I just adore his cowardly little face.


	5. Chapter 5

In contrast to the stuffy dining salon, the third class rec room was alive with music, merriment, and raucous carryings-on. The plain wooden tables had all been pushed against the walls to make room at the center for a dance floor, and nearly every table still with chairs to it was occupied by men and women of varied ages and races playing cards and sharing drinks. In the far corner of the room by an upright piano, an ad hoc band consisting of a fiddler, tambourine player, and accordion had assembled to create a jovial tune that soon met the accompaniment of stomping feet and clapping hands.  

Cigarette smoke hung thickly in the air, Fenris coughing on it every so often but uttering not a single complaint. A tall red-haired woman who'd introduced herself as Aveline, one of Hawke's traveling companions, appeared at his side with two foaming pints of ale, one of which she handed over to Fenris.

Fenris stared at the dark amber liquid a moment, thanked her, and carefully brought it to his lips, pulling a face when the sour taste hit his tongue. 

"It's no Antivan wine," Aveline consented with a roll of the eyes after she'd taken a swig of her own pint. 

"I did not mean to insult—"

Aveline patted his shoulder. She had a warm, maternal air about her, despite or perhaps even because of her size. "You're allowed to think its crap, it's okay."

Flushing, Fenris took another cautious sip of the ale. Through the smoke and the constant movement of the room, his eyes found Hawke. The Fereldan was dancing with a small, fair-haired child to the upbeat song, his big hands wrapped around hers and her feet atop his both to give her additional height and so she could keep up.  

"He's a rare sort, isn't he?" Aveline was looking at Hawke as well, a fond smile tugging at her lips. "Not many good men left in the world." 

Too right she was, but Fenris did not want to spoil his mood with thoughts of lesser men.  

With a flourish the song came to an end, though the lapse in music did not last long. A heavyset woman with a pair of spoons sat herself down among the gathered musicians and began tapping out a playful beat. With a cheer the other players took up the rhythm, weaving a jaunty new melody into existence.

“Here.” That was his voice, loud so as to be heard above the music; and that was his hand passing the mug of bitter ale back into Aveline’s hands, but Fenris felt as though he was watching from outside his body. Detached somehow, but still wholly present as he made his way through the crowd, a conviction that should not belong to a slave guiding him to Hawke’s side. 

Hawke looked up, flashed him a bright smile, and then got down on one knee in front of the little girl. “I’m going to dance with him now,” he told her, letting go of her hands.

Alarmed, Fenris almost took a step back. “What?” That was not what he’d come over here – was it? Suddenly he was entirely too present in his body, too aware of Hawke coming to stand in front of him – Hawke’s arm sliding around his waist and Hawke’s breath tickling his ear as the Fereldan leaned in.

“You’re going to have to get a bit closer.”

Fenris shivered as he was pulled in, nearly flush against Hawke’s broad form. It was intimidating, but in an entirely different way than Fenris was used to. It was not the closeness that frightened him but rather the desires that closeness manifested in him – desires Fenris did not think himself capable of. He wondered what it would feel like to have Hawke’s hands on his body. Not on his arms or at his hips, but more secret places, intimate. Would Hawke be gentle? Would he be rough, if Fenris wanted it so?

“I don’t know this dance,” he realized as Hawke nudged them toward the other couples already swinging and twirling together in harmony. Embarrassment struck Fenris as he worried over tripping or proving inadequate somehow. 

Hawke chuckled. “Neither do I,” he said. 

And then they were dancing. 

The crowd parted happily for them, swallowing them up. Fenris’s concern kept him too focused on those around them, watching their movements and attempting to coordinate himself likewise; but in doing so he ignored how Hawke led him, resulting on several instances of tread feet.

“Don’t look at them,” Hawke whispered after Fenris stepped off his toes for the third time. “In fact, close your eyes.”

Fenris blinked. “But how will I—”

“Do you trust me?”

What a thing to ask. The answer, unequivocally, should be no, and in fact Fenris’s lips parted automatically to say so. Slaves trusted only in their masters, the ones who owned them, who decided at the dawn of each day whether or not they’d outlived their usefulness. They should not... A slave should not put faith elsewhere. It was wrong. It was _dangerous_...

But Hawke’s large hand curled around one of his own, and the denial died swiftly in Fenris’s throat as he realized he trusted this man without question. His life had dangled literally in Hawke’s hands at a time when Fenris had abandoned all hope, and Hawke had not failed him then.

Fenris shifted closer, eyes falling shut as he breathed out, “I do.”

They stared moving again, a little awkwardly but the rhythm became easier to follow now that Fenris was not distracted by the other dancers. His heart beat a frantic dance of its own, blood and lyrium both singing in his veins as they soared across the dance floor, twirling and jumping wherever Hawke saw fit to move them so.

So light of heart was he that when the song ended he lifted his voice in a cheer, eyes opening once more to settle on Hawke. Hawke held him firmly with one hand on his hips and the other at the small of his back, fingers splayed and seeping warmth into Fenris through the thin layer of his robe. Fenris’s own hands wound around Hawke’s shoulders, his head tilted forward to be able to see the Fereldan from the dipped position they ended in.

Realizing he’d made the noise aloud, he flushed and looked away quickly. Hawke just smiled, a glint in his eyes Fenris could not quite name, as he could not recall anyone looking upon him with such tenderness. He swallowed, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and then Hawke took his wrist and tugged gently.

They made their way from the clearing, Hawke muscling through the crowd until they reached a table where several gruff-looking men huddled over a game of Diamondback. Hawke reached over them without thought, grabbing two steins of ale that looked relatively untouched from the center of the table and presenting one to Fenris.

Fenris held the mug in both hands, pursing his lips and watching some of the other men drain their pitchers in long, starved gulps. Hawke as well swallowed down the swill with practiced ease. At the base of Fenris’s spine itched the admittedly childish need to prove himself.

He tipped his head back as he brought the lip of the glass to his mouth and did not think about the taste as the bitter liquid slid down his throat. Aware of the eyes trained on him, he chugged three-quarters of the ale, hardly breathing between great swallows; and when he lowered the mug it was with a long, satisfied sigh. The liquid sloshed in his belly, making him feel almost uncomfortably full, but his mind tingled pleasantly now and the unadulterated astonishment on Hawke’s face had him smirking with a senseless amount of pride. 

“What?” He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away the foam. “Think an elf can’t drink?”

The men at the table whooped in appreciation for his attitude, which elsewhere would have been with harsh reprimand. Hawke applauded with gusto, and as if not to be outdone started to guzzle the rest of his own drink. Fenris watched the muscles of his throat work, hypnotized and of half a mind to lick a wet swath across the lightly-stubbled skin. 

“Hawke.” The name broke from Fenris’s lips, soft and husky and unheard over an unexpected commotion.

“Hawke!” Someone else shouted, and there were several disgruntled outbursts as an attractive dark-skinned woman came barreling into Hawke’s side, knocking him off balance. Fenris had seen her on the dance floor earlier making suggestive eyes at a frail Dalish girl. 

The next thing Fenris realized, his hair was sopping with the remaining contents of Hawke’s tankard. 

“Isabela!” Hawke shouted, completely devoid of amusement. The woman howled with laughter, wholly unapologetic, and Hawke shoved her out of the way before turning back to Fenris. “Are you all right?” 

Fenris’s shoulders quivered and he threw his head back, laughing harder than he was certain he’d ever done in his life. He swiped his fingers through his dripping bangs, slicking the hair back, grinning so wide it almost hurt.

Hawke returned his accusing glare to Isabela.

The game of Diamondback swiftly dissolved, the men at the table much more invested in the possible fight about to break out – some laying bets on Isabela and others insisting the two would fuck before ever landing a punch on each other. Isabela winked at Hawke, licking her full lips and just daring him to make the first move.

Back straight, chest out, Fenris stepped between them, trying his best to look intimidating as he must have been able to once as Danarius’s bodyguard. The excitement in the air fizzled but did nothing to dampen the buzz of energy beneath Fenris’s own skin. “So,” he said, glancing from Isabela to Hawke to the gawking bystanders, “you think you’re big, tough humans?” 

His brands flared unexpectedly to life, startling gasps from those gathered.

“Let’s see you do this.” 

And then he was but a lyrium-blue streak blurring through the room, passing through furniture and people alike in a way that was not physically possible yet so undeniably part of himself – a part he had not even recognized, until just this moment. It was as if time around him had slowed to a crawl, all sound muted except for the song of the lyrium pulsing within his body, carrying his feet lightning-fast around the room, too fast to be seen much less halted. Fenris’s heartbeat rang in his ears, each exhale echoing as he stopped short of Isabela, his body solidifying again – all but his right hand, which remained a silver shadow embedded partway between her breasts.

“Maker,” she breathed, titillated, running her fingers over where his flesh became whole again.

The sights and sounds crashed suddenly back down on him and Fenris flinched away, tearing his arm free and watching as his hand became solid again, the lyrium glow dying just as abruptly as it ignited. He panted, eyes flickering over the gaping faces, shoulders hunching as he realized what he saw staring back at him was fear.

Hawke whistled. “ _Andraste’s_ _ass_ , Fenris.”

Whirling toward him, Fenris lifted his hands in self-defense. Had he ruined everything? Would Hawke turn him away now? It was not normal, to be able to do that with his body, and how had he even done it, anyways? Fenris attempted calling out to the lyrium but it stayed quiet and dormant. “I did not mean—”

Hawke threw an arm around his shoulders. “That was fantastic!”

That... had not been what Fenris expected to hear. He tilted his head back, catching Hawke’s gaze uncertainly. “I-it was?”

“Of course it was,” Isabela answered, sauntering up to them and settling into an effortlessly seductive pose at Fenris’s side, hip cocked, head tossed back. “You had your hand _inside my chest_! By the flames, think of all the ways you could make use of a talent like that...” She trailed off, raking smoldering eyes down the length of Fenris’s body. “ _Magical fisting_.”

Hawke broke off in a fit of coughs, while Fenris’s eyes widened.

“You could make _a lot_ of coin,” Isabela promised. 

Fenris swallowed, unsure of how to respond. Eventually he nodded. “I’ll... keep that in mind. Though honestly, I did not even know I could do that.”

“Are they lyrium?” Hawke traced a finger lightly over one of the swirls along his forearm and Fenris tried not to shudder away. Noticing, Hawke withdrew so his hand hovered over the skin instead. “I had wondered, but... it’s impossible.” He studied Fenris, awed. “It should be impossible.”

Fenris curled his fingers into the palms of his hand, brows drawing together in a dark scowl. The markings were nothing to be amazed by, even if they were a feat of magic and science alike, even if they allowed him to surpass the laws of nature. Even if he’d just shown them off for the sake of reaction – something he now regretted immeasurably. “Danarius did this to me,” he said, because at least he knew that much, though the reason why was only just dawning on him. “To turn me into a weapon he could point at any enemy.”

In his mind echoed a scream, raw and agonized and most certainly his own.

“Are you all right?” Hawke asked, tentative.

Fenris answered automatically – “yes” – but he felt unclean somehow. Tarnished by the realization of what had been done to his body. The scars were not just monstrous in appearance, but in their use as well. How many people had perished by his hand with the aid of these markings? Had he even been aware – had he consented to them? A slave had no place to challenge the wishes of his master but surely he could not have wanted this?  

“I... apologize. I did not mean to put a damper on your evening.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ve made it a great deal more interesting.” 

Was it flattery, or just Hawke being polite? Did it matter? Fenris wanted to believe it either way. “Perhaps I’ll practice my flattery for the next time I see you. With luck, I’ll become better at it.”

Hawke’s eyes lit up, mouth tilting in a grin. “So you plan to see me again?”

Fenris smiled as well. The band struck up another song, fast-paced and inviting. Emboldened, Fenris tugged on Hawke’s wrist, pulling the Fereldan to him. “We shall see,” he said, and dragged them back to the dance floor. 

\---

Captain Cullen Rutherford gazed over the expanse of the Waking Sea stretched out before him, a tranquil blanket of deep blue beneath twinkling starlight. His breath escaped in a cloud of white, proof that while they traveled to warmer climates they had not yet left the chill of Ferelden entirely behind.

“Report for you, Capatain.”

“Thank you, Hendyr.” Cullen held out a hand expectantly and Donnic Hendyr passed the slip of paper to him. “Another ice warning. You’d think we were in the dead of winter the rate these are pouring in. It’s barely Harvestmere.”

“Perhaps the ‘bergs missed the memo.” They shared a small bout of laughter before Donnic tipped his head to the side, considering the deceptively calm waters. “Most likely just a precaution, Captain, but still not one to take lightly.”

“I had no intention of doing so,” Cullen assured him. Donnic saluted and turned to go, but Cullen called him back before he could take two steps. “Did you ever find those binoculars?”

Donnic shrugged, unconcerned. “Not since I lent them to Samson. Shouldn’t need them if visibility stays like this. Couldn’t ask for better weather on a maiden voyage!”

Glancing down at the report in his hands, Cullen could not help but disagree. Despite the complaints that without question would arise from first class, Cullen would have preferred choppy seas to this glassy stillness. Unsettled waves could alert them of an iceberg’s presence more surely than binoculars or reports coming in from nearby vessels. Nevertheless, he kept his mouth shut, said goodnight to Donnic, and watched the man until he disappeared around a corner. 

The hour was late, soon to where Cullen would leave the ship in the capable hands of his second-in-command and retreat to his own hammock to snatch a few hours of sleep before sunrise.

“Captain Rutherford,” a crisp, accented voice interrupted the peaceful air of the bridge. Cullen laid one hand heavily on the massive, finely polished help as an excuse not to bow to the Tevinter nobleman. “Do you never rest?”

“Magister Pavus,” Cullen greeted civilly. “I would have thought you’d retired for the evening.”

Halward dragged his eyes across the room, seeming to search for something in particular and, when he did not find it, sighing in disappointment. “About to do just that. I notice you’ve not lit the last four boilers. 

Cullen raised an eyebrow, straightening his posture and wondering just why this was of any concern to the magister. “We are making excellent time,” he explained, galled he would even need to defend himself to a bureaucrat who had no business implying how Cullen do his job. “I saw no need to—”

An impatient wave of Halward’s hand and Cullen abruptly cut off with a frown.

“Captain,” Halward began, indulgent. “Need I remind you of the substantial Tevinter coin funding the crowning achievement of your career?” Cullen’s fingers tightened around the wheel but he offered no argument. Seeing his victory, Halward smiled thinly and continued. “The size of Somniatis is unsurpassed; that much is indisputable. Now, I wanted the marvel to be of her speed. Give society something new to talk about, something to make headlines across Thedas.” 

“I would prefer not to push the engines until they’ve been properly run in,” Cullen impressed gently. Tevinter or not, Halward was a sensible man, and Cullen hoped to appeal to that pragmatism now. 

“Of course,” Halward said, nodding solemnly. He clapped Cullen’s shoulder in a show of camaraderie that the captain stifled the urge to shrug off. “I leave it to your good judgment to decide what’s best, but just imagine, if you will, what a glorious triumph it would be if we arrived in Kirkwall tomorrow night and surprised them all.”

It certainly was tempting to envision, especially considering he’d left Kirkwall soil on the least ideal of terms: dishonorably discharged for speaking out against the moral decline of the city’s Templar Order.

That was nearly a decade ago, now, and Cullen was hardly the vengeful sort; still, Cullen had to admit that the shock on Knight-Commander Meredith’s face would be an enjoyable sight. She, who’d been so confident he could aspire to nothing without the Order, would see how quickly he’d risen in the ranks of a new chain of command, and how he’d not succumbed to his lyrium addiction but in fact strove to better himself in spite of it.

Cullen crumpled the iceberg report in his fist.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for punishment/abuse in Danarius & Fenris scene (second half of the chapter).

It felt as though they’d walked miles around the ship – though in reality no more than ten minutes could have elapsed – by the time Fenris actually gave him an inclination for why they were doing so. 

"I... wanted to thank you again.” That, in Hawke’s opinion, seemed ridiculously insufficient a reason to have sought him out so early in the morning, particularly since Fenris already thanked him the night before. Multiple times. Realizing it himself, Fenris cast his gaze aside nervously, scratching behind his ear. “Last night, I- I've never experienced anything like that before." 

The sun had yet to rise when Fenris, hooded by a dark cloak like some shady beggar, came knocking on Hawke's door in third class, asking to walk with him. Presently they meandered along the near-deserted mid-deck, where no one paid any mind to an elf and scruffy Fereldan walking together, though Fenris still maintained a polite distance between them.  

Even with the picturesque sight of the sun creeping steadily above the waves, the sky thrown into warm orange and pinks, Hawke found himself captivated by the elf. "I hope you enjoyed yourself."

"I did," Fenris said, so earnest. "It was better than anything I could have imagined. I wish...” His voice trailed off, gaze wistful as it turned to the rising sun.

"Come again tonight," Hawke suggested. 

Fenris laughed, the sound bitter and dry. "My master would never allow it." 

Danarius certainly would not have allowed it the night before either, and but still Fenris went. Hawke missed the confidence with which the elf had carried himself the night before, the unguarded happiness in his eyes as they'd danced together, and he could not imagine how Fenris kept such a bright-burning spirit contained during the day. 

"Wager he wouldn't approve of you being here with me right now, yet here you are."

Fenris bowed his head. "It's not that simple." 

"Sure it is."

Fenris turned away from him, curling a hand around the ship’s metal railing and looking utterly defeated, and Hawke wondered why the elf did not simply run. It was something he’d often questioned about slaves. In a life like that, when there was nothing more to lose, why not take the chance and try to break free? What was stopping Fenris from doing that? The way Hawke saw it there was nothing Danarius could do to Fenris that he hadn't endured already. Why didn't he use the lyrium?

Hawke would... he could help him, if Fenris wanted. "Once the ship docks, make a break for it. You could go to Kirkwall, start a life there. Then every night would be yours to do with as you pleased."

Fists clenched angrily, Fenris whirled around, eyes blazing. "Do not speak to me as if you know what I have been through! You know nothing of being a slave, of— of being _property,_ having a life that is not your own."He shook his head, teeth bared with an ill-concealed combination of pain and rage, and spread his arms. The brands of lyrium flickered in silent warning. "Look at me. You can see what I am. What could I do with freedom? I will never be able put down roots or live as a respectable man." All at once the steam fueling his heated words burned out, and his voice and shoulders lowered. "Even if I could, there would be no point. He will never let me go. I... I have _tried_." 

Hawke instantly regretted bringing the subject up. Fenris was right; he had no business assuming, sticking his nose in this, not after just this brief amount of time they’d known each other. Still, he wished there was a way to reassure the elf, to promise that things were not as hopeless as they seemed; but how could he of all people even say that after having lost so much himself?

The truth was he had no way to help Fenris, not a penny to his name with which to buy the elf's freedom, and no one could expect him to successfully fight off a powerful magister on his own. 

Fenris took a deep breath, forcing calm over his body. When he exhaled, his focus landed on the drawing pad Hawke had brought with him in case inspiration struck. 

"What is this thing you're carrying around?" Before Hawke could object Fenris pulled the notepad from his grasp. "What," he snorted, tearing the cover open, "are you an artist or something? Big, tough Fereldan with a soft heart?" When Hawke didn't say anything, Fenris's green eyes turned down to the work in his hands. He pursed his lips. "These are quite good." Slowly he made his way to a sunbathing chair, seating himself on the plush cushion and continuing to peruse the notepad. "They're... incredible, actually," he admitted, the ire slipping gradually from his smooth face. 

Hawke took the chair beside him, warm pride blossoming in his chest. Fenris was not the sort to dole out compliments lightly, he was sure, so he felt especially honored by the elf's praise.  

Fenris stared, transfixed, at the image of a woman against a barnyard door, cradling an infant to her bosom. "These were drawn from life?"

"Yes." Hawke remembered the woman, though he’d never learned her name. The Blight had robbed her of home and husband, a story shared by many of his countrymen and women, and for about a week she’d huddled with her babe in his family’s barn, Bethany bringing them meals and spare blankets until one morning they’d simply discovered both mother and child gone.

Fenris hummed thoughtfully and went back to the drawings. He did not speak again for a short while, and even then it was just a startled little gasp. "Oh..." His lips parted as he turned the page, sudden embarrassment tinting his cheeks and making his eyes flit about nervously - to the deck, the group of women passing them by chattering idly about the view, the sea, anywhere but the image in front of him. Hawke looked over his shoulder and smirked when he saw the reason. 

Even as a charcoal rendition, Zevran Arainai had that effect on people.  

 Fenris's gaze settled back on the nude portrait for the briefest of moments before he quickly turned the page, revealing another image of Zevran. Posed differently this time, the sensual elven body stretched out languorously over some cushions, eyes beckoning even from the paper. Hawke watched the muscles in Fenris's throat work as the elf swallowed nervously, his scarred hands ghosting over the picture only where modesty allowed. 

"You like this man," Fenris noted, and there was something in his voice - something akin to jealousy, only more hesitant - beneath the cool air of indifference he fought to sustain. "You've drawn him several times." 

Indeed Zevran appeared on the next two pages as well, the last of which focused on his hands, curled invitingly over a head of sleep-tousled hair. "Well." Hawke indicated the long, dexterous fingers. "He had lovely hands, you see."

The look on Fenris's face suggested he suspected Zevran's hands the last thing to have captivated him. His eyes traveled from the shading of the tattoo that swirled over Zevran's left cheek to the attractive bow of his lips. "I believe you must have had a love affair with him." 

Hawke laughed. "No," he assured, though he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been tempted at one point. "Just with his hands." He flipped back a page and traced the gnarled skin where Zevran's knee would have been. "He was an Antivan Crow. Lost his leg on some contract that brought him to Ferelden. Not much work outside the whorehouse for a one-legged former assassin."

"...I see." 

Because Hawke knew Zevran would never wish to be the recipient of the pity in Fenris's eyes, he smiled. "Hell of a sense of humor, though. He never let anything crush his spirit."

_So you should never let anything crush yours._

The words remained unsaid, but hung between them nevertheless. Fenris looked uncomfortable for a moment before a swift bout of self-directed anger made him exhale with a little snarl. "Hawke—" he started, but cut off abruptly, shaking his head. He flipped a few more drawings ahead. 

Hawke gave him the silence he obviously needed, though he wished he could be privy to what demons haunted the elf. He studied the pictures as Fenris did, remembering the stories he created for each and wondering if Fenris was concocting stories of his own to go along with them.  

After a few minutes Fenris asked, "do you make any money with your drawings?" 

A change of topic - something safe that did not dredge up whatever kinship he may have felt for Zevran. Hawke obliged. "Not as much as I do killing people."

"I'm sorry." 

Hawke shrugged, nonchalant. "It's the way of our world." 

Closing the notepad with slow reverence, Fenris met his eyes. "Perhaps you will have better luck in Kirkwall," he offered. "You have a gift, Hawke." When Hawke opened his mouth to argue, he insisted, "you do. You... see people."

"I see _you_."

"Do you?" Fenris sounded breathless for a moment, as if he found this some incredible feat. But of course, he saw himself as merely a slave, his master's decoration. After a moment's hesitation he lifted his chin, adopting a haughty air that made Hawke chuckle fondly. Fenris's moss-green eyes shone with emotion he was ordinarily forbidden to reveal. "And?"

Hawke smiled for him and leaned closer, his hand sliding over Fenris's. "And you wouldn't have jumped."

\- - -

As much as Fenris would have preferred to spend the morning with Hawke, discussing his art and learning more about the Fereldan by doing so, he could not completely lose track of his duties, and as planned he made it back in time to serve Danarius breakfast. As usual, his master preferred to take his morning meal alone on his suite’s private sundeck. Varania and Orana had already set the small two-seater table, and food had just arrived from the kitchens when Fenris slipped through the service entrance. 

Orana glanced at him, a worried crease between her eyes, but she said nothing. Fenris took up the service tray and wheeled it out onto the deck, squinting at the harsh rays of light that bathed the space from a far harsher angle than the B-deck where he’d sat with Hawke.

Danarius sat facing away from the sea to avoid the glare and did not look up even as Fenris came to fill his glass with tea. He had some correspondence open in front of him, letters that would have little meaning to Fenris even if he could read them.

Fenris worked quickly and quietly to place food on the table without disturbing him. As custom in Tevinter, Danarius enjoyed a light breakfast: sweet pastries, sliced fruit, and either juice or hot tea depending on his mood. It did not take long to serve, and when he was finished Fenris bowed and chose the corner by the door to await further instruction. 

"I had hoped you'd come to me last night."

The slow, deliberate drag of a knife through paper – Danarius opening another letter – snagged Fenris’s breath in his lungs, and he did not dare to look behind him. He could feel Danarius's eyes burning holes into the back of his skull. "Forgive me, Master," he whispered. After a moment he slowly turned, though he still could not bring himself to lift his gaze. "I did not think you would require my service, so I retired for the evening."

The delicate sound of a spoon against fine china met Fenris’s ears – Danarius drawing out his silence before striking his next blow. "Your excursions below deck were no doubt exhausting."

The scathing words pinned Fenris in place, and his mind whirled as he wondered who could have followed him. Movement from inside the suite caught his eye and he watched as Varania slipped quietly away from where she’d been eavesdropping by the curtains. His heart sank. However he'd wronged her in the past, they were still family. Did that truly mean nothing to her? 

Danarius's voice brought him back to the present. "You will never behave like that again, Fenris. Do you understand?" 

Fenris wanted to say no, because – well, why couldn’t he serve Danarius and still find ways to enjoy his life? If he were to be a good slave, loyal, why could he not? Was it really so wrong to want one night of happiness when his days were so utterly devoid of joy.

No. These thoughts were not his own. Before boarding the Somniatis such things had not crossed his mind. He knew what he was, and he knew what to expect from such an existence.

_Not your place, not your right, what are you letting this Fereldan do to you?_

Danarius sighed, rubbing at his temples. “This is not like you, pet.”

“How would I know that?” The words were out before Fenris could stop them, leaving him standing wide-eyed and amazed by his own gall. His master, as well, seemed taken aback. “How could I possibly know what is like me when my memories have been stolen.”

“Stolen,” Danarius repeated, a sinister rumble to his voice that shook Fenris with apprehension.

A dangerous quiet settled between them – the calm before the storm – before Danarius shot to his feet, a pulse of magical energy knocking the table off its legs and sending food and dishes to the floor with a clatter. Fenris instinctively held his arms up to shield himself and flinched when a shard of broken glass bit into his forearm.

“They were never _your_ memories,” Danarius shouted. “They are mine. You are _my_ property, Fenris, and as such everything about you belongs to me!”

With the stealth of a predator stalking its prey the magister approached, and Fenris hated himself for how he cowered, terrified and weak against the sparks of electricity that Danarius sent dancing over his arms. The lyrium reacted strongly to the magic, burning under his skin.

He thought of Hawke. Thought of playful music and the twinkle of merriment in honey-brown eyes, of warm hands at his waist, guiding him in movement unfamiliar and breathtaking, pulling him to safety – but saving him from what? From this, pain and torment and battling the constant regret: _he should have let me fall_.

Hot tears ran from Fenris’s eyes as the electricity intensified, his legs giving out under the pain. He collapsed at Danarius’s feet, splintered apologies on his lips.

_“You wouldn’t have jumped.”_

_Make it stop._ Such agony… He’d known magic was a thing to fear as much as marvel, a twist in his gut had always told him that, but he never thought it would hurt so much. _Please, master, anyone..._ Desperate fingers clawed at the ground as he reached blindly for the only thing in the short list of what he remembered that had ever stemmed the ache inside of him. _Hawke..._

 _“I see_ you _.”_

The name may have slipped out, a tiny, fragmented prayer. His vision exploded with stars as he was roughly backhanded. Fenris tasted blood.

“You are mine,” Danarius hissed, grabbing a fistful of white hair and jerking Fenris’s head back so he could not escape his master’s burning gaze. “And you _will_ honor me. You will honor me, as a slave is required to honor his master, because I will not be made a fool. Now.” His voice gentled as suddenly – blessedly – the magic evaporated from the air. Danarius cupped Fenris’s cheek, massaging the blood from his split lip into the skin. “Am I in any way unclear?” 

Fenris inhaled shakily, heart still fluttering madly against his ribcage. “N-no, Master.”

When Danarius released him he crumpled back to the floor. Danarius stalked past him, throwing open the sliding door and barking for Varania. She arrived twisting her hands in front of her skirt. “We had a little accident, Varania,” the magister said brusquely. “Clean this up.”

“May I dress his wounds first, Master,” Varania asked, drawing Fenris’s attention to the blisters along his skin from the electricity. 

Danarius contemplated the request for a moment. “No. Not yet. He will help you clean, and then he will attend services with me, and if he behaves like a good pet I will heal him.”

Fenris closed his eyes, and even in that small movement laid residual pain. “Thank you, Master.”

The door closed, and silence, heavy and oppressive, reigned over the pair. Varania came to kneel beside him, and Fenris could not muster the energy to shake her away when she touched his shoulder. He thought she might offer sympathy, express regret over her part in his punishment – for it must have been her. Somehow she’d known whom he’d been with, or where he’d gone, and in a bid for favor she’d told their master. 

But her conviction remained steadfast, voice devoid of guilt. “You know why this happened.” When Fenris did not answer, she pressed her fingers to the edge of a blister. “Don’t see that man again. I hate to...” She sighed, shook her head. “ _Please_ , Leto.”

“Don’t call me that,” Fenris hissed. Whatever the name represented of his past mattered not, and whatever Varania may have been, she was nothing to him now but just another disappointment. He knocked her hand aside, ignoring the screaming protest of his body, and pushed himself to his knees.

Giving him space, Varania began to gather the fragments of a teacup. “This isn’t a game,” she said. “Our situation is precarious. You—”

“No,” Fenris interrupted. “Do not pretend you did this for me.”

Varania huffed. “You would not recognize it even if I did. You have always been a selfish, spoiled thing, _Fenris_.” She all but spat the name out. “I thought your lack of memories might change that, but it seems the only thing left of you.”

The words caused an uncomfortable twinge in his heart. Was he really so different than he once had been – and was it really such a bad thing? Swallowing, Fenris turned his gaze aside. “I am not your brother,” he said hollowly. “You remind me every day.”

The sliding door opened again, Orana stepping out with a broom. Grimacing, Fenris rose to his feet to take it from her. Her eyes were wet, consolatory as she took in the state of him. He ignored both elven women, mistrustful of even Orana’s gentle spirit at the moment, and started to sweep the debris into a neat little pile. 

Orana left and it was just the two of them again. They worked in silence, knowing words between them would only cause further damage right now.

It was only after the deck was cleaned that Varania took his hands, mindful of the lyrium scars and blisters alike. “If you care not for me or even yourself, think of him.”

Fenris sucked in a breath. He had not thought of the danger their association might pose to the Fereldan. _Selfish, spoiled..._ Varania was right. 

“Danarius will kill him,” she said. Fenris knew it. The magister was possessive of him above all his other slaves, for whatever reason – the lyrium or something more. He would spare no mercy to anyone he thought trying to take Fenris away from him. “If you value his life at all, let this go.”

His fingers twitched, then slid between Varania’s to hold her hand. There was nothing smooth or soft about her, even here, her pale hands calloused from a lifetime of hard labor same as his own. “It is unfair.”

“We are slaves,” Varania said, regret finally creeping in. “Our choices are never easy.”


	7. Chapter 7

In respect to the two predominant denominations of faith among passengers, the Somniatis offered both Andrastian and Imperial Chantry services in the modest chapel. The comfortably cushioned pews were filled by magisters and their kin, all dressed in modest, formal attire, and a priest led the service from an ornate altar. 

Fenris stood with his back to the portside wall with Varania, Orana, and the other slaves dragged along by their masters. While Fenris didn't have much of an opinion on religion himself other than a vague hope there was more beyond this life, Danarius was very devout - or at least inclined to keeping up appearances as such. Fenris didn't mind having to attend; if nothing else, he enjoyed the music.  

Varania and Orana both knew the hymns well enough to sing quietly along, and as this was a place of worship they were in fact encouraged to do so. Fenris remained one of the few who did not participate, though he kept his head respectfully bowed and his hands together in front of him as if praying while he closed his eyes and let the musical language wash over him. 

"You're not supposed to be up here—"

The irritated voice carried through the barrier of the chapel doors, and Fenris's well-trained ears twitched in response. He blinked, tilting his head minutely, and was not entirely surprised to discover Hawke as the source of the commotion. The Fereldan stood between two stewards, expression anxious as he gestured toward the chapel.

Fenris shifted nervously, heart skipping a beat. Varania's warning still echoed ominously in his mind. As much as he hated admitting so, she was right; it was selfish of him to entangle Hawke in his personal affairs, foolish to pursue even an informal relationship with him when circumstances would inevitably force them to part ways when the Somniatis docked in Kirkwall. Fenris needed to accept his place, and learn to make the best of it. 

A hand took Fenris's wrist in a vice-like grip, and Fenris cast his eyes askance to where Varania stood frowning at the doors. 

"He persists," she whispered. "Do not go to him."

He would not. Since their talk in Danarius's suite Fenris had resigned himself to breaking all ties with Hawke. Attachments were just weaknesses waiting to be exploited, after all. He'd hoped to pass the remainder of the trip quietly avoiding the man, but obviously Hawke had other ideas, and it was somewhat pitiable that the mere sight of the man spurred an automatic desire to go to his side. All the more reason to put an end to it. 

"I'll go," Varania offered, surprising him. 

Before Fenris could object she'd slipped past the doors and was approaching the stewards. Hawke's voice carried through in the brief moment the doors were open - "I was just here last night, don't you remember?"

Unable to help himself, Fenris crept closer to the door, straining his ears to pick up on the conversation. The confidence in Varania's voice, when she spoke, sounded every bit as a magister's apprentice. 

"Master Danarius continues to be most appreciative of your assistance. He expresses his gratitude--"

She flicked her wrist and offered something to Hawke, which he balked at.

"I don't want your master's trinkets—"

"And also," Varania interrupted, advancing a step, "to remind you that you hold a third class ticket and your presence here is neither appropriate _nor desired_ any longer." 

Fenris watched, curious of Hawke’s reaction. The man looked very much as if he wanted to argue; his fists clenched an released at his sides, and he seemed a mere moment away from knocking Varania and the stewards aside and barreling into the chantry anyway. 

Then he lifted his head, almost immediately locating Fenris among the parishioners and locking eyes through the glass chapel doors. Fenris sucked in a deep breath, heart summersaulting in his chest. So many emotions swirled in those honey-brown eyes - it was too much to bear. Fenris gritted his teeth and forced his gaze to the ground. 

No other sounds came from beyond the doors. Inside the chapel, the hymn ended and the priest lifted his voice in a responsorial, asking if his practitioners renounced evil and temptation in all its many forms. 

"He should not bother you again," Varania said, when she'd taken her place beside him once more. 

It felt too hollow to consider a victory; but he supposed if it meant Hawke was safe from Danarius, he should be glad.  

\- - -

Hawke strode purposefully down the mid-deck, followed closely by Isabela and her most recent conquest, the whimsical little Dalish elf Merrill, who thought the situation terribly romantic and insisted on joining them for their intervention. 

At least, Aveline thought as she reluctantly brought up the rear, it had started as an intervention. When she’d approached Isabela about talking to Hawke about the less-than-wise decision to court another man’s slave, Isabela agreed to back her up. They’d both met Fenris below deck the night before, however briefly, and while Aveline couldn’t deny her friend and the elf seemed to fit naturally together, the display of Fenris’s power coupled with the knowledge that he was, in fact, a slave, did not bode well for Hawke.

She hated to break up a blossoming romance, but she had to prioritize Hawke’s safety – and Fenris, innocuous as he appeared at first glance, would only prove a hazard to him whether he meant to or not.

"Listen to me,” Aveline pleaded as they leapt the gate separating third and second-class. She jogged up to his side and took him by the elbow. "He's part of another world, Hawke. A _dangerous_ world."

Hawke made a noncommittal sound, glancing furtively over his shoulder before wrenching his arm free and moving to stand against the wall beneath the A-deck promenade. 

Aveline tried again to appeal to his sensibility. "You know what these magisters are like, Hawke—"

"That's them," Hawke spat. "Not him."

"It doesn't matter," Aveline argued. "He _belongs_ to them."

"I hate to say it," Isabela said, sympathetic, "but you're playing a needlessly risky game, Hawke. You should forget about him. Seems he’s closed the door anyway, and it's probably for the best."

An intelligent man would know a lost cause when he saw one, but this wouldn’t be the first time Hawke let himself be led by the heart rather than his brain. Aveline realized, however, that the real lost cause would be trying to convince him to do anything else but just watch his back if he meant to continue.

“No.” Hawke shook his head. “Something’s not right. The way he looked at me from the chantry...”

“Sounds like he’s lost interest, from what you said,” Isabela said.

“Unless he’s been forbidden to be with you?” Merrill piped up. “You looked so lovely dancing together last night, and so very happy. I can’t imagine he’d fake that. What would be the purpose?”

“What does it matter?” Aveline said. “You should think about him as well, Hawke. If he’s been forbidden to see you, he’ll get into as much trouble as you. Maybe even more.”

Merrill clapped her hands. “Forbidden romances are so exciting.”

Aveline shot her a look. Did she not hear anything Aveline had said? Then again, if the suspicious marks crisscrossing the elf’s wrists indicated anything, it was that danger appealed to Merrill.

Hawke looked between the three women, then up at the wall. "Are you going to help or not?"

Aveline shook her head, resigned, and crouched down, putting her hands together to form a makeshift step. Isabela mirrored her pose, and together they gave the extra boost for Hawke to hoist himself over the divide. 

"He's not being logical," Aveline said, exasperated. 

Merrill sighed wistfully. "Love is rarely logical."

\- - - 

“Our next stop will be the bridge. Come along this way.” 

Fenris pulled away from the curious machine he’d been attempting to figure out without actually touching. After Chantry services let out, Magister Alexius insisted on giving their little group a tour of the Somniatis. Although he tried to contain it to thin-lipped smiles, his pride in his creation was nearly palatable – and well deserved. Fenris could hardly fathom the mechanics behind a vessel of this size, but just standing on board, watching the waves roll beneath the ship, was awe-inspiring.

They left the sparring room and made their way to the bridge. Alexius showed them the chartroom, introducing his son and Dorian to Captain Cullen Rutherford, whom Magister Pavus, Lady Pavus, and Danarius had already met. 

The Captain was a classically handsome Fereldan man: curly blond hair and kind eyes, aristocratic nose. He nodded in Fenris’s direction despite none of the magisters bothering to acknowledge either his or Elyan’s presence. The two slaves exchanged looks of surprise and straightened their postures, Fenris returning the unspoken greeting with a slight tip of the head.

Felix commented on the weather being conducive for their travel, and inquired as to the approximate length of the journey remaining.

“Sooner than we originally estimated,” Cullen answered, smiling as he elaborated. “We’re speeding up. I’ve just ordered the last boilers lit.”

Halward Pavus especially seemed pleased with the news, although everyone present expressed similar delight at the travel time being cut short. Even the wealthy could run out of ways to entertain themselves when confined to a ship, it seemed. 

To Fenris, it made no difference when the Somniatis reached land. While a leisure ship to the rest, in reality the Somniatis existed in Fenris’s mind as nothing more than a slave ship carrying him back to Tevinter in chains. Just because he no longer resisted his fate did not mean he enjoyed the idea of it approaching sooner.

He trailed behind their group as expected, keeping a watchful eye on them as they crossed the deck. As they walked he made note of the surrounding passengers. A fair crowd had gathered to observe the view, though most first class travelers preferred to avoid the wind by keeping indoors. A few noble men and women dotted the area, sun bathing on cushioned chairs. A gentleman with a coat and cowl surveyed the view from beside one of the smaller boats that lined the railing, secured by thick ropes. 

Fenris dragged his gaze from the man’s broad shoulders to the lifeboat, looking around to take stock of others like it. He knew such a boat’s purpose, of course, and also knew it served as a precaution more than anything. The magisters liked to joke about the ship’s invulnerability, though Fenris shared the more practical idea that anything made by man could be unmade. 

Invincible or not, one other thing was apparent: the number of lifeboats did not coincide with the number of passengers. Normally Fenris would have kept the observation to himself, but the realization unsettled him enough to take voice of its own accord.

“There are not very many,” he said, when Alexius had stopped them in their path to explain the thought process behind the naming of Somniatis. Fenris’s voice may has well have been another wave crashing against the side of the ship for all it went ignored by the magisters. Alexius tilted his head curiously, then continued on with explaining how Halward had been the one who bestowed the name.

Elyan came to stand next to him, a worried crease between his brows. “Not very many what?”

Fenris glanced at him, then to the nearest lifeboat. He gripped one of the ropes, testing the knot with a hard pull. “These boats,” he clarified, ignoring when Felix and Dorian hung back as their fathers carried the tour farther ahead. “They are for if anything happens to the ship. If it sinks.”

“So?”

With a huff, Fenris gestured to the lifeboat. “There does not seem to be enough boats to hold everyone on board.” At least, there did not seem to be enough to hold the _lesser_ half – as he was sure the passengers had been categorized. Perhaps all the first class passengers could make it to safety in the case of an emergency, but those in steerage, and the crew – the slaves? It did not take an educated man to surmise their fates should the worst happen. 

“Not enough by half, actually,” Dorian spoke up. He was leaning against the railing, arms crossed, eyeing Fenris with interest. “Observant, aren’t you?”

Fenris shrugged. Felix came around and nudged his shoulder. “Don’t be modest,” he said. “Most people don’t notice that sort of thing. My father put in these new type davits, to make an extra row of boats here”- he paused to indicate where along the deck – “but... some thought the deck would look too cluttered with them, so he was overruled.”

Dorian scoffed. “My father, you mean. ‘Waste of deck space on an unsinkable ship’ – I believe those were his exact words.” 

Elyan cast a nervous look from Fenris to the nearest lifeboat. He fiddled with the hem of his tunic before settling his gaze on Dorian, in search of reassurance. “You do not think... we would actually need them?”

“Rest assured,” Dorian said, uncrossing his arms in order to ruffle Elyan’s black hair. “Your master has built us a good ship, strong and true. She’s all the lifeboat we need." 

“We should catch up before we’re missed,” Felix suggested, and began to walk ahead.

Dorian seemed reluctant, but sighed in agreement nonetheless. Fenris watched as he slipped his hand from Elyan’s hair to squeeze the slave’s shoulder. Elyan smiled a little, cheeks red, and followed when Dorian started after Felix.

A hand grabbed hold of Fenris’s wrist before he could join them. The lyrium markings along his arms flashed in automatic response as Fenris whirled around to claw at his assailant’s throat – only to freeze as he noticed the face beneath the cowl.

“Fenris,” Hawke began, but Fenris reached up and pressed a hand to his mouth. He peeked over his shoulder to make sure no one had noticed his absence before he pushed the Fereldan toward the nearest door.

“In,” he ordered, and Hawke went without complaint. Fenris followed, checking all the while to ascertain they hadn’t been spotted. He did not want to imagine the punishment if Danarius discovered him sneaking into a deserted room with another man, and was tempted to lock the door behind him once they were both inside. The only thing that kept him from doing so was that a locked door might give the wrong impression to Hawke. “This has to stop. Whatever... However you think we’re involved, it can’t happen.”

Suddenly Hawke had him backed up against the door, hands gripping Fenris’s shoulders. Fenris gasped, heart stuttering in his chest. He didn’t know what Hawke intended to achieve, but he was all too reminded of the tender look in Hawke’s eyes when they’d danced together, and he hoped the Fereldan was not about to start professing love. He did not know what he would even do with declarations like that. There was no way he could reciprocate them. His life was not his own; his heart was not his to give freely to whomever he chose.

Hawke bowed his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “Fenris...” The name washed over him, warm and comforting like a prayer. 

Fenris closed his eyes, hating how much he enjoyed the closeness of their bodies, the heat seeping through layers of clothes. Why did Hawke insist on making this difficult? Gathering his resolve, he pressed his palms flat against Hawke’s chest and shoved him away. “Hawke, please... stop.”

But Hawke came right back in, a hand going to Fenris’s hip, holding them together. “I can’t. I know what you are, and I know what I am.” He did not say he was Fenris’s rescuer, or anything to that effect. Rather, “I’m involved,” and he tucked a strand of Fenris’s hair behind his ear. “You jump, I jump. Remember?”

Tears pricked at the corners of Fenris’s eyes. How could Hawke say these things, and so easily? Why did he care so much?

It was easier to pretend the words had been patronizing. He tried to glare, though he knew the expression fell short of true ire. “You’re making this very hard,” he accused. “I belong to Danarius. I... I love Danarius.” The words carried the taste of bile, and Fenris fought not to choke as he forced them through his teeth.

Hawke’s fingers pressed into his hip. “You don’t belong to anyone,” he corrected, and _oh_ , how Fenris wished it were true. “He’s got you in a glass jar like some butterfly, and you’re going to die if you don’t break out.”

 _You wouldn’t have jumped._ It held true now, but would it once he reached Tevinter? Once he was well and truly crushed beneath Danarius’s heel?

“Maybe not right away,” Hawke continued softly, “because you’re strong, but... sooner or later that fire in you is going to go out.”

 Fenris curled his fingers into Hawke’s coat. “It’s not up to you to save me, Hawke.”

Hawke slipped a hand beneath Fenris’s chin, tilted his head back so they locked eyes. “You’re right. Only you can do that.”

Fenris licked his lips, his heart racing, body traitorous to every truth his mind screamed at him: _push him away, protect yourself, protect him_. Somehow, he found his voice, and it came out remarkably level despite the confusion of desires warring within Fenris.

“You say I am strong, but it’s not true. I am... afraid,” he admitted. He did not – could not – meet Hawke’s eyes. “I am terrified.” Because Hawke did not know Danarius, what the magister was capable of. “Please, Hawke, for both our sakes. Just leave me alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I really don't like this chapter, I'm sorry. u-u


	8. Chapter 8

Fenris passed the rest of the afternoon in a state of numb disillusionment - seeing but not seeing, sounds washing over him but never properly registering in his mind. He performed his duties with mechanic precision to the great approval of his master, but he felt very much as Hawke had predicted: alive, but lifeless.

"You did the right thing," Varania assured him, as she fastened the buttons at the back of his black tunic. Evening approached and he would soon attend Danarius in the dining hall. "It may not seem like it... Your world may seem bleak and unhappy, but you will see. This is where we are safest." 

She was right, of course. Thedas was not a welcoming place to elves. Outside of enslavement in Tevinter, their kind lived in poverty, barely scraping by in alienages, living in constant fear of rape or being stolen from their hovels. No matter the country, an elf would never live a comfortable – never mind respectable - life, and so Fenris should be grateful for the certainty of at least three meals a day and a bed to sleep in that came with his station. The elves in the ghettos of Ferelden were not so well fed or cared after. Those of the Dalish clans did not have such fine clothes to wear.

Fenris met the dull green eyes of his reflection in the looking glass, absently fingering the tunic's golden filigree and thought he should be glad - thankful Danarius favored him even now, after his recent displays of disrespect. 

 _Look how he loves you;_ he tried to tell himselfas Danarius entered the room on light feet, a velvet box in his hands and a smirk on his face. Another voice, dark and unavoidable, slithered up from the depths of his mind when Danarius lifted the lid to reveal a heavy gold collar studded with blue diamonds: _look how he owns you_. 

So this was his destiny: Danarius's puppet, his pet, cossetted and collared like a show dog. Everything he'd hoped against. 

 _"You don't belong to anyone,"_ Hawke had said, so well meaning but so very wrong. 

"This was meant for when we returned to the estate in Minrathous, but I believe your good behavior this afternoon warrants a little reward." Danarius hooked the collar around Fenris's neck, long fingers grazing the soft underside of his throat. "There you are, my little wolf." 

Fenris touched the largest blue stone at the center of the collar. For all the ugliness it represented, it was finely crafted and beautiful, glittering alluringly against his sun-browned skin. He could not fathom the price for such a treasure, nor the lengths another slave might go to earn the honor of receiving it, though he did recognize the bestowment as more than mere reward for good behavior. 

It was a bribe, a sparkling display of wealth that would cause most men to salivate. Indeed Varania eyed the collar with wide eyes, surely thinking of how the gems alone were probably worth more than both their lives combined. 

Fenris sank to his knees, and a cry echoed in the back of his mind - some part of himself long buried dying to burst free and almost succeeding - shaking the chains that bound it and rallying against Fenris's compliance. "Thank you, Master."

 _You had no master! You were free,_ that stubborn part of him raged, chased after by Varania's rationality: _no matter where we go we will always be slaves._

Oblivious to the warring ideas tearing at the seams of Fenris's mind, Danarius appraised him before nodding in approval. "You see, Fenris, I am a generous master."

Fenris found it suddenly difficult to breathe properly, though he couldn’t be sure if this was the result of magic or his own body’s rebelling against surrender. He rose to his feet when Danarius gestured for him to do so, but he could not look at the man.

"There is nothing I could not give you, pet, should you serve me well,” Danarius continued. “Oh, you are proud, you have always been so. But open your heart to me." 

Eyes trained on the collar, it almost seemed as if Fenris was weighing his options - as if he had any room to refuse. Danarius was his master. If he wanted Fenris's heart, he could take it by force - or he could try to. 

Matters of the heart were not that simple, after all. 

Were it merely a matter of taking what belonged to him, Danarius would not need to ask. Were it only so easy, Danarius would not have to rely on punishments or bribes. Fenris's heart would already be his, if in fact every part of a slave were his master’s property.

_“You don't belong to anyone.”_

He could never fulfill Danarius's request. Not because was empty, his heart shriveled in the absence of the only man to ever send it pleasantly racing, but because his heart still beat proudly within him for the man Fenris _chose_ to give it to. 

And that man was not - would never be - Danarius.  

 _His choice_. Because no matter what Danarius called him, what Danarius did to him, Fenris was still a person with free will. Danarius, for all his power, could not take that away. 

He gripped the collar, hooking a finger into the space between gold and skin and testing the strength. It would not snap. Once they made it to Minrathous, Danarius would secure this collar around his neck and throw away the key, and it would not matter the freedom of Fenris’s spirit. 

But if he fought, if he used his free will and made another choice for _himself_ …

"Don't waste this opportunity," Varania warned him, after Danarius went to return the jeweled collar to the chest in the next room.  

Opportunity. Asif life as a magister's slave actually allowed for growth. Fenris had seen in his reflection the entire rest of his life as if played out before him: hanging off Danarius's arm, primped and prized but constantly watched for any misstep or sign of imperfections, a slow and painful death in spirit until he were as empty inside as those made Tranquil.  

Fenris left the room without saying anything. This morning - even several minutes ago - he might have been able to promise loyalty, but after seeing that collar around his neck... 

He could not. He _would not_ submit to that life without a fight.

Throughout dinner he was attentive and mild-mannered, the perfect slave, never once calling unnecessary attention to himself or speaking out of turn. He poured Danarius's wine and wiped his chin when required, but when the gentlemen retired to the lounge for drinks and political banter and the slaves were subsequently dismissed, Fenris did not return to the suite as expected. 

For it was not what Varania wanted for him, and certainly nothing Fenris even realized he'd wanted for himself until just recently, but there _was_ one opportunity available to Fenris. 

He only prayed it hadn't yet passed him by. 

\- - -

"If this was a trashy romance novel," Isabela lamented, throwing a card down on the growing pile, "they would have at least parted ways _after_ having a good fuck."

Aveline hummed thoughtfully in agreement as she surveyed her own hand. Hawke's attempted confrontation of the elf that afternoon had not gone as planned, and as a result they'd had to deal with his rapidly declining mood the remainder of the day. "A slave and a penniless refugee? Hardly sounds like the setup for a love story, trashy or otherwise."

"Maybe not," Isabela allowed, "but is it stupid that I wanted it to work out?" She took a card from the deck and exchanged it with one from her current hand. Aveline did the same, but scoffed at whatever card she'd picked. 

"How could it, honestly?" Aveline sighed and folded her hand - another lost round. "The elf knows it's safest for him to stay with his master. ‘Better the devil you know,’ and all that." 

Isabela's lip curled in disgust. "No man should exist as another's possession. It's wrong."

"I agree, but there's nothing we can do about it. Slavery's been part of Tevinter culture for thousands of years. Two women on a boat aren't going to change that."

" _Ship_ ," Isabela corrected. "And it wouldn't be just us. Hawke would help, and Merrill too." 

Aveline sighed in exasperation. "All right,  _four_ refugees on a ship are not about to abolish slavery in Tevinter."

"You do realize," Hawke spoke up from the room's top bunk, glaring down at them, "I am right here?"

Standing up from the lumpy mattress they'd been using as a card table, Isabela gave the Fereldan a good-natured slap on the ass. "The oppressive melancholy you're radiating is hard to ignore." She stretched her arms above her head. "A good ale will cure you of that."

"I don't believe the Somniatis has any good ale," Hawke attempted to joke, but he succeeded only in reminding himself of the previous evening: Fenris's nose wrinkling over the taste of sour beer, and the determination on his face as he'd chugged the swill down anyway. The glow of pride and happiness that radiated from him when they'd danced, the spark of attraction flickering to life when they'd locked eyes. 

He closed his eyes, recalled hands pushing against his chest and the eyes of a man who thought himself trapped with no way out _._

_"It's not up to you to save me, Hawke."_

No, it wasn't _;_ but why didn't Fenris want to save himself? 

Scrubbing his face with his hands, Hawke drew out a loud sigh before hauling himself upright. On the bottom bunk, Aveline was dealing out another hand of cards for herself and Isabela. She looked up as he slid off the mattress and made his way to the door. 

"Need some air," he grumbled. 

"Hawke," she called after him, and he paused with his hand on the doorknob. "He's made his choice. There's nothing you can do."

Hawke knew that, and even if Fenris did not see himself as worth it Hawke respected him enough to not fight against his wishes. If Fenris wanted Hawke to leave him alone then he would not go after the elf again.  

He'd not been forbidden to hope for Fenris to come to _him_ , however. And futile though it may have been, he hoped.  

\- - -

Hawke stood at the apex of the bow railing, his honey-brown eyes glimmering in the dusk light as if lit by the embers of a searing fire as he gazed out over the horizon. His mouth was set in a firm line, an expression far too serious to suit him. More natural was a smile and eyes squinted with laughter. Fenris hoped he has not ruined the chance to see such an expression again. 

Cautiously Fenris approached, footsteps silent over the wooden floorboards, so much like the cautious advance Hawke made during their first encounter. The situation was reversed, and non-threatening in the sense that neither of them dangled over the side of the ship, but the possibility the Fereldan might be the one to save him remained unchanged. 

He did not need Hawke to save him. Hawke said as much earlier that day, and Fenris knew that he could have survived that first night even had the Fereldan not intervened. But - and this was something he'd only just realized - Hawke gave him the _desire_ to be saved. The desire to keep living - to see more, learn more, _be_ more, and damn whatever limitations tried stopping him. Hawke brought color to a world that otherwise seemed painfully black-and-white. He was a walking paradox, large and rugged but gentle in spirit, light of heart; the mercenary who preferred to render life in charcoal than in blood. He made Fenris laugh - truly laugh. 

Most importantly, he saw Fenris as a person, not merely a belonging, and a person worth saving. Made Fenris believe he was worth something as well, dangerous and foolish though such thoughts were. 

Fenris broke the tranquil evening silence, though he kept a distance of several feet, unsure quite yet if Hawke would welcome any closer proximity. During their last encounter, after all, his mixed emotions and fear led him to push the man away. Part of him still clung to the belief that that was the right thing to do. 

A stronger part wouldn't allow it. 

"Hello, Hawke."

Hawke turned, frowning when he caught sight of him. He did not say anything, and in that instant Fenris worried he'd made a terrible mistake, that he'd burned the bridge and now condemned himself alone in the wreckage. A moment passed and then Hawke blinked, eyes widening a fraction as if he'd just discovered Fenris was actually standing there and not some illusion. He tilted his head, lips quirking a little. "Fenris," he greeted, tone warm, affectionate, and the tension slipped from Fenris's shoulders. 

Fenris stepped toward him, the chill wind ruffling his black tunic and whipping hair across his flushed cheeks. "I changed my mind." As if he'd be here otherwise. 

"Did you?"

Part of him expected skepticism.  It was understandable that Hawke did not believe. Up until this point Fenris's resolve had wavered, unreliable as his memories, his fear of Danarius and begrudging sense of obligation to Varania overriding his desire to pursue his own happiness. And maybe this was fruitless, maybe this choice would see him damned - but it was _his_ choice.

 Hawke only smiled, drinking him in.  

"I went to your room," Fenris said, the words coming out in a rush.  "Isabela said you might be up here. So..." He trailed off, color darkening his cheeks. 

_So I am here; I am choosing you._

Hawke held out a hand. "Come here."

Tentatively, as if nearing an unknown animal, Fenris did as told, coming to stand at Hawke's side. He stiffened when Hawke settled his hands on his waist, looming close as if to kiss him. Fenris closed his eyes instinctively, equal parts eager and terrified by the proximity, holding his breath for a kiss that never came. Hawke guided him forward to the guardrail and maneuvered Fenris to stand in front of him. 

Only when the hands at his waist tightened, Hawke lifting him easily to stand on the bottom railing, did Fenris protest. "Hawke..." His voice wobbled uncertainly, images of lyrium flaring and his body dropping to the obscure blue flashing through his mind. 

Hawke's hands slid up his sides, making Fenris shiver, and then over his arms where they eventually met Fenris's own hands. Their fingers tangled together as Hawke spread their arms open wide. 

The wind was sharper up here, buffeting against Fenris’s clothes, but it was not uncomfortable, and with his eyes shut he could almost imagine himself soaring above the ocean, high and untouchable - a bird, a hawk, _free._

Hawke's lips brushed his ear. "Okay.” He let go but did not step back. “Open them."

Fenris gasped at the limitless stretch of sea before him, reflecting the orange and pink and purple of the twilight sky. His heart - indeed, his whole being - felt lighter than he could ever remember, grounded only by the warmth of Hawke behind him. Even that was not an oppressive in any way; rather it was as if they both floated above the waves.  

"I'm... flying." Laughter bubbled up from his throat and he arched his back, tilted his neck and let himself bask in the sensation of freedom, stronger than he was sure he’d ever known it. "I'm flying, Hawke!"

Hawke's mouth formed a smile against Fenris's ear. He moved his hands back to Fenris's waist to keep him steady. 

Fenris closed his eyes again, allowing himself to get lost in the feeling for just a while longer. Hawke claimed to have nothing to offer him, but this was already more than Fenris ever expected to receive in his life. A slave did not dream of freedom, or soaring at great heights, and here Hawke was, breaking his cage and helping him fly. It was not permanent; the spell would break the instant he let go of the rails, but the underlying promise of it stole Fenris's breath. The promise that Hawke would help him to achieve that freedom— somehow, someway he would lift Fenris up from the ashes of a broken, painful existence, if Fenris only let him. 

Weightless above the unfurling sea and future before him, Fenris leaned back, sighing dreamily as he was met with the solid wall of Hawke's broad chest. Hawke pressed closer and slowly raised his hands, arms outstretched until they met Fenris's, gently touching their fingertips together. Turning his head to the side, Fenris watched their fingers caress through and around each other like the bodies of two lovers until they finally interlocked. He inhaled deeply - the salty air of the Waking Sea, and another scent – a warm and homey musk that called to mind light sweat and the dirt of a long day's work, charcoal and travel-weathered papers. 

The gentle scratch of Hawke's beard met his cheek. Fenris tilted his head, still caught up in the potential of his liberation, eyes half-lidded as they collided with Hawke's gaze. Hypnotized, he brought their arms down, crossed them around his middle as he closed what little distance lingered between them. Their mouths slotted together, chaste and hesitant, until Fenris gained the confidence to lift one of his hands to the back of Hawke's head, snare his fingers in the Fereldan's thick black hair and draw him in deeper. 

Hawke's arms tightened around his waist, his tongue running along Fenris's bottom lip before pushing into his mouth- dominant, but not domineering. Fenris allowed it, thrilled in it, sighed into the kiss and surrendered wholeheartedly to the passion building within him.  

An errant thought fluttered across his mind as he turned fully in Hawke's arms, letting himself be cornered against the bow of the ship: what might the old him have thought about this? The Fenris that ran away from his master might approve of the rebelliousness of his actions - but Leto, the one who willingly handed himself to Danarius in exchange for his family? Fenris was turning his back on everything his former self sacrificed for.

Hawke's hand circled around to cup the back of his neck, gentle fingers brushing the fine hair at Fenris's nape and lips and tongue wringing a soft whine from Fenris's throat. 

Fenris decided maybe it did not matter what his past selves might have thought. Amnesiac or otherwise Fenris was Fenris, and he'd made his choice. It seemed unwise and, yes, he was still afraid, but of one thing he felt absolutely certain: nothing could be worse than the thought of living without Garrett Hawke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon: "draw me like one of your Antivan Crows."


	9. Chapter 9

"Will this light do? Don't artists need good lighting?" 

Hawke took a moment to collect his jaw from where it had practically dropped to the floor in astonishment before glancing over at Fenris, who stood fretting with a lamp next to a luxuriant sofa on the other side of the opulent receiving room. While Hawke had been mightily impressed by Varric's accommodations, the impeccable grandeur of Danarius's suite put the former to shame. He was almost afraid to step further into the room, but at Fenris's insistence he'd found himself a table to set his sketchpad and materials on.  

Fenris looked right at home among the elegance surrounding them, even if none of it belonged to him. Hawke didn't know how the elf managed to ensure their privacy in the suite, but he seemed wholly unconcerned by the potential of interruption, crossing into the adjoining bedroom in a silky black robe as if he owned the place.  

The easy confidence helped put Hawke at ease, if nothing else. He pushed his mind from the idea of Danarius or even another slave barging in on them and followed behind Fenris, mindful not to disturb anything in the room. "Zat is true. I 'ave never vorked in such 'orreeble condeetions," he teased, affecting an awful impersonation of the Orlesian accent and everything. 

Danarius's bedroom proved just as opulent as the receiving room, the large space dominated by an enormous, neatly made four-poster bed and ornately carved chests. There was not a speck of dust to sully the room, not a bauble or trinket out of place, and Hawke wondered if it was one of Fenris's duties to maintain the cleanliness of the rooms. It was certainly a better alternative to some of the other options his mind conjured while eyeing the bed in particular. 

A loud _thunk_ sounded from the walk-in wardrobe, and a moment later Fenris lugged out a heavy chest. He sat on the ground and examined the lock, lips pursed thoughtfully as he turned it this way and that. 

As much as he preferred not to spoil the pleasant mood by bringing the man up, Hawke could not pretend these were normal circumstances. More than that, he did not want to imagine the consequences should they be interrupted. He had to know: "Should we be expecting the magister anytime soon?"

Fenris laughed dryly. "Not as long as the cigars and brandy hold up." He looked up from the chest, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Orana and Varania are attending Hadriana, and I... may have bribed another to play lookout for me."

Hawke raised his eyebrows. "How long have you been planning this?"

The tips of Fenris's ears burned red. "When I saw your drawings, I thought..." He shook his head and plucked a pin from his hair, letting his bangs fall loose from where they'd been braided away from his left temple. "I suppose I have been thinking about it since then."

"Even when you were convinced we shouldn't see each other again?" Hawke crossed his arms, a playful tilt to his mouth as he cocked his head to the side. 

"Yes," Fenris answered, simple and honest. He pried the pin apart with his teeth and set to work picking the lock. 

Hawke's gaze remained fixed on the deft, scarred hands, already imagining how they'd look immortalized on paper. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

Fenris only hummed in response, but the comment clearly pleased him. A soft _click_ preceded an even softer, "aha!" And then Fenris was rising to his feet, a spectacular gold choker in his hands, which he offered out for Hawke to appraise. 

"What are these, sapphires?" Hawke whistled low, more than a little impressed, as he looked the necklace over, fingers trembling a bit. He did not think he'd ever held anything as monetarily valuable as this treasure appeared. 

Fenris shook his head. "They are very rare diamonds."

Well, that certainly did not make Hawke any more relaxed holding them. He fleetingly hoped his fingers did not leave grease marks on the stones, though his worries died abruptly when Fenris's long fingers curled around his own. 

"I want you to draw me like your Antivan Crow. Wearing this," he whispered, green eyes locking on Hawke's and making the breath catch in his throat. He stepped a little closer, tightening his grip minutely. "Wearing... _only_  this."

Hawke's mouth ran dry, eyes widening in surprise. He hadn't thought... Well, he hadn't really known what to expect when Fenris asked for him to draw his portrait, but this certainly had not been among the possibilities. "Um..." His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he noticed Fenris's eyes drop to follow the motion. When he lifted his gaze again there was a challenge in those eyes, daring Hawke to tell him no. "All right."

Fenris took the diamond-studded collar from his hands and fastened it around his own neck ( _a perfect fit_ , Hawke idly noted, disgust weighing in his belly like a stone as he realized the choker’s purpose) before entering the receiving room again. Hawke stood rooted in place, still processing what had just been asked of him, until Fenris called out to him. 

Why was he so nervous? Many of his drawings were nudes, and he'd never gotten so flustered over the idea. Even with Zevran, who naturally oozed seduction and flirted without shame through the entire process, he'd never experienced this stomach-churning combination of nerves and anticipation. 

Fenris stood by the settee with his back to the door, in the process of disrobing. The black silk material slipped over his shoulders and down his arms, gliding over bronzed skin like water and pooling at his elbows. Fenris turned his head a little, glancing over his shoulder and catching Hawke's gaze, coy. The robe dropped further, baring the scarred expanse of his back to Hawke's keen eyes. Hawke followed the swirls of lyrium down, over the proud curve of Fenris's spine to the jut of his hips and muscular swell of his buttocks.  

_Maker, but he's gorgeous._

Delicate but powerful, an oxymoron if Hawke had ever seen one; that was Fenris. Long, lithe limbs rippling with strength. Muscles flexed and contracted, skin pulling taught with the precise movements, as Fenris stepped over the forgotten robe and crawled onto the settee. 

Hawke didn't know if Fenris was going for seductive, but if he was it certainly worked. He took a deep breath and made his way for the chair Fenris had moved earlier. The chair he would draw in. Right. Because there was a reason he had a naked elf reclining in front of him right now. 

"Tell me when it looks right." 

Hawke blinked, raised his eyes and then narrowed them thoughtfully. Fenris lay stretched across the divan, legs overlapping, with one arm behind his head and the other curled by his chest. Not a bad position, but... Off, somehow. Too submissive. "Bend your left leg a bit. Not too much. Like that." He held out a hand to indicate Fenris stop moving. "Now raise your head. Eyes to me." 

Dark green eyes glittered beneath a strong brow, alluring. Hawke fumbled for his charcoal pencil, mumbling a soft curse when he accidentally knocked it from the little marble end table. Fenris made no attempt to hide his amusement, the muscles of his stomach clenching and chest heaving as he laughed. 

Hawke shot him a mock-glare. "Now you’ve messed up your pose," he accused, grinning, although the only noticeable difference was a smile. 

"Fix it, then," Fenris suggested, and Hawke knew he meant more than just giving verbal instructions.  

Slowly he rose from his chair, looking Fenris over before reaching out and gently tilting the elf's head a bit. "Like that," he whispered, smoothing the white hair back. _Soft_. He wanted to bury his fingers in the strands, pull Fenris closer until their mouths aligned - but that was not what Fenris brought him here for, even if Hawke could read an answering desire in his eyes. "And your arm should be up, not covering your chest." He guided Fenris's left arm to rest on the plush cushion above his head. "You should never have to hide anything."

"Hawke..." Fenris licked his lips, squeezing his hand. He looked as if he wanted to lean forward, reach for him, but Hawke pulled back before he could act upon it. If he let Fenris kiss him, touch him, there would be no chance of maintaining an air of professionalism. 

Hawke returned to his chair and smoothed the drawing pad over his lap, tracing imaginary lines with his fingers as he contemplated where to start. Then he took up his pencil and began to sketch, outlining the shape of Fenris's body in long, soft lines. 

His heart pounded; he could feel the blood rushing through him, hear the pulse in his ears. It was... Sensual, but in a way he'd never experienced around his other models. Maybe it was just anxiety over the fact they still could get walked in on. But Hawke didn't think so. 

He started on the facial features, sketched the attractive bow of Fenris's lips, remembering as he did so just how Fenris's mouth had tasted sweet from whatever part of the meal he'd taken with his master, how he'd delved his tongue and discovered another underlying taste, something bitter and spicy like mulled wine and just _Fenris_. 

The rest of the world faded out of existence, as it tended to whenever he set his mind to his work. When he acted as a mercenary he performed his task with ruthless proficiency, rarely missing his mark, the swing of his blade strong and true. When drawing, he possessed that same quick efficiency with sure strokes of his charcoal, although the end result was far lovelier. 

Fenris's image transferred gradually to the paper: a languid pose that radiated a suppressed, lethal energy; beautiful and deadly, everything Fenris had shown he could be. And his eyes.... Hawke was most proud of how he'd managed to capture the fire that burned within Fenris's eyes, the passionate spirit that could not be contained by even the most beautiful or expensive of collars. 

"It is perfect," Fenris said, voice thick with emotion when he surveyed the finished work. He'd donned a tunic and leggings for modesty's sake, the roles of artist and model relinquished the instant Hawke set down his pencil and blew the excess charcoal from his paper. 

Green eyes roved over the lines Hawke had drawn with disbelief and a hint of pride.

Hawke reached out, sliding his hand around the back of Fenris's neck and drawing him in as he'd been wanting to for the past hour. " _You_ are perfect."

Fenris laughed - a nervous, abbreviated sound - but allowed him a kiss. Hawke did not point out the wetness of his cheeks, or the way his lips trembled just slightly. He wouldn't have had the chance to anyways, as the moment they came together for a second, deeper kiss, a series of hurried little knocks fluttered against the door of the suite. 

Fenris gasped and pulled back, whipping his head toward the door. Even from here, the muffled voice of a woman could be heard. "We must leave. Quickly, go to the service door." He indicated the direction with his hand. "I will follow you." With that, he dashed back into the bedroom to return the collar to its place, taking the drawing with him. 

Hawke did not even think twice, merely went after him, pencil back in hand but the rest of his supplies forgotten. Fenris's glare was disapproving until Hawke reached down and etched his name on the bottom corner of the portrait.

If Fenris was leaving the picture as a snub to Danarius, Hawke wanted to make sure the magister knew exactly whom the artist had been. 

Catching onto his reasoning, Fenris smirked. "Write something for me," he requested. 

"Of course," Hawke said, smirking when Fenris leaned over to whisper the words in his ear. He laughed at the brazen taunt, and thrilled when Fenris, eyes bright with that defiant spark he loved, leaned over and kissed him. 

Another succession of knocks, faster this time. Fenris arranged the drawing and collar on top of Danarius's bed. Then he took Hawke's hand and together they left the suite through the service door.  

But not before Hawke took a last glance behind him - at the bed and the collar and the life Fenris was very clearly leaving behind.  

_'Now you can keep me locked up forever.'_

Those werethe words Fenris had him write, the undeniable declaration that he would no longer suffer under Danarius or anyone else's control. 

Hawke laced their fingers together and, smiling, they ran.

 

\- - -

Varania withheld a shudder of disgust as she closed the door of Hadriana’s stateroom behind her, unable to comprehend even after all this time in the magister’s service how one person could be so completely reprehensible. Danarius was self-obsessed in his own way, as those in the magisterium tended to be, but at least he’d earned his position and the esteem of his peers through the unparalleled contributions made to the Tevinter Circle and especially the field of lyrium science. What had Hadriana done in her life, other than leech from his influence?

Perhaps she would not care so much if Danarius did not lend his slaves to Hadriana to the point where the apprentice considered herself the holder of their leashes. Varania should not have to cater to the whims of the foul woman, in addition to Danarius’s – and yet, there was no way for her to refuse either of their demands, especially with Danarius so preoccupied with having Fenris at his beck and call to have need of his other attendants.

Fenris had been compliant with their master’s wishes since the previous night’s discretions, to the point where Varania allowed herself tentative hope that her carefully constructed plans to eventually buy their freedom hadn’t all been for naught. When Danarius bequeathed the diamond collar to Fenris, more than ever, she’d breathed a sigh of relief that her brother had not mucked things up beyond repair.

She was not stupid; she knew what having Danarius’s continued favor would eventually mean for her brother. It was actually surprising the magister had yet to make carnal demands of Fenris. Some of his actions, in fact, reminded her of a suitor courting his intended rather than a man bent on possessing another no matter the cost. 

Danarius wanted to possess Fenris; that much Varania did not question, and she hadn’t needed to see a collar around her brother’s neck for verification. But... he seemed to want Fenris to give himself up willingly to that possession – and not just because he was a slave and it was expected of him. He wanted, Varania honestly believed, for Fenris to love him. 

 _“He used to have such affection for me,”_ Danarius had told her, directly after they’d reclaimed her brother at that decrepit Fereldan inn. Fenris had been unconscious on the bed between them, pained little moans falling intermittently from his lips as his mind fought the magic consuming his memory. _“I remember it fondly. Perhaps one day he will look at me like that again.” And_ he’d reached out, stroked Fenris’s outgrown bangs with a lover’s familiarity. 

He would Fenris right, if Fenris only obeyed.

But Fenris’s expression when he’d looked at himself in the mirror and saw the glint of the collar’s gold against his skin... _Trapped, frightened, desperate for a way out_. It made Varania nervous.

A familiar dark-haired elf squatted outside the door of her master’s suite, caught off guard by her arrival and staring at her with guilty, wide eyes as he knocked on the door.

Immediately suspicious, Varania crossed to him. “What are you doing here, Elyan?”

Elyan held his hands up, magic crackling agitatedly in the air around him, halting Varania in her tracks. Surely he did not intend to strike at her? Eyes narrowing, Varania raised one of her own hands, letting ice accumulate along the tips of her fingers as a hint for the younger slave to back down.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again.

With an anxious look at the door, Elyan sighed. “I told them someone was coming.” 

“Them?” Varania advanced, guard rising. She would have demanded clarification, but with the mounting dread in her gut she realized she already knew. “Of course. The Fereldan.” Clearly her brother’s stupidity knew no bounds. Gallivanting with the refugee below deck was bad enough, but this - actually bringing the man up to their master’s quarters? The absolute arrogance made Varania want to spit, wrap her hands around her brother’s throat and throttle the return of sense into his troubled mind.

Without another word, she shoved Elyan out of the way. In a final show of defiance he knocked on the wall this time and then took off down the hall. She could deal with his involvement later, after she’d salvaged whatever mess Fenris was about to get them into.

Varania entered Danarius’s suite just in time to hear another door close. 

 _Am I too late?_  

She scanned the room quickly in search of any sign of a hurried coupling – stray clothing or out of place cushions on the divan – but found nothing. The room appeared uninhabited except for what belonged to their master

They were obviously using the servant’s entrance to make their escape. Varania gave chase, fully intending to chain her brother to Danarius’s bedpost herself once she found him again.

Only – when she rounded the corner and caught them at the far end of the narrow corridor, Fenris with his hands in the Fereldan’s hair and his head tipped back, smiling more brilliantly than she could ever remember seeing – her legs froze beneath her. 

Hawke kissed Fenris’s jaw, the hollow behind his ear.

“He’ll never have me,” Fenris breathed, guiding their mouths together.

Hawke nipped his bottom lip and he groaned. “You were never his to have.”

Fenris’s hands slid down to Hawke’s arms, gripping his coat tightly. His eyes opened to narrow slits before sliding in her direction. Varania opened her mouth, unsure of what to say – of what to think, having walked in on this. Even if she’d imagined worse things transpiring between the two, this somehow seemed far more intimate. 

Turned out she didn’t have to say anything. Fenris stiffened, bowed his head. “ _Kaffas_ ,” he muttered.

“Fenris—” Varania started, reaching out a hand even though she knew it was too late. She could already see it in him: the bending of the knees, every muscle in his body tensing in preparation to either fight or flee. He chose flight, turning sharply on his heel and all but dragging the Fereldan behind him as he bolted down the corridor. “Fenris!” a shout echoed by Hawke, who’d turned to look behind him at the disturbance.

Varania sprang after them automatically, body back under her control, because this couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t – she couldn’t be losing him, not again. 

They descended a flight of stares, and then Fenris veered sharply to the right, barging through the door and into a second-class corridor with Hawke. A few passengers looked up sharply at the sudden commotion, especially when Varania barreled out after them.

“The lift-” Hawke yelled over the pounding of their feet on the polished wood floor, taking the lead and jerking Fenris toward the elevators. “Hold the lift!” he called, raising a hand.

Varania attempted to speed up, but the effort proved in vain. Hawke held the lift’s steel gate shut after he and Fenris squeezed inside, Fenris glaring at her behind the Fereldan’s shoulder.

“Fenris, don’t,” Varania pleaded. “He won’t forgive this. He _won’t_...”

But the elevator was already lowering, carrying Fenris away from her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, Denarius's motivations and obsession with Fenris really interest me. -shrug-
> 
> Next time: "where to, serah?" "to the stars."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the chapter I was most looking forward to and it ended up being the biggest pain in my ass. go figure. still not entirely happy with it, but oh well.
> 
> thanks to the lovely astrariums on tumblr for her advice and encouragement that helped me get through this chapter.
> 
> *take note of rating change. this chapter contains sexual content.*

They stumbled out of the lift and into the narrow, colorless steerage hallway together – the operator merely arching an eyebrow at how their shoulders quivered with restrained laughter before sending the elevator back into motion. Once the lift had started its ascent again, Fenris leaned against the opposite wall, smiling and enjoying the way his pulse raced beneath his skin. He never expected he might feel so alive, running from his sister, relinquishing that part of himself - the part she wanted, that would stay and follow along with her plans, subject himself to Danarius's mercy.  

He'd turned his back on it, and quite verbally. The picture he'd left behind in Danarius's suite could be in no way misinterpreted, and indeed if Danarius succeeded in getting hold of him again he would never forgive Fenris or Hawke for it. None would escape his wrath. 

But Fenris had no intention of going back. Ever. He'd made his choice and would not falter. 

The second lift opened across the hall. Hawke grabbed Fenris's wrist just as he spotted the familiar head of red hair, and he let the Fereldan push him toward a marked door. Fenris could not read what the sign said, but he was sure the symbol drawn beneath it meant this was not a proper entryway - and as if to reaffirm that an unwelcoming blast of noise assaulted his ears as they made their way down the tight corridor within. His ears twitched back and, grimacing, Fenris held his hands over them in an attempt to block out the noise. 

The corridor opened into a small room, with only a hole in the ground and ladder leading downward to the source of the clamor. Hawke caught his eye and shouted something, but Fenris could hardly make out the words.  

Hawke tried again:  "...think.... following us?"

This time Fenris heard enough to assume Hawke meant Varania, and if so he had to think that his sister most definitely would not give up to easily. Danarius would not spare her if she failed.  

Ignoring the twinge of guilt that threatened to settle like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach, Fenris descended the latter. 

He felt, when he reached the bottom, that he had crossed the threshold into Hell itself - a twisted nightmare where furnaces screamed and desolate, smoke-darkened figures - mostly elves, Fenris noted - wandered mechanically back and forth through the haze, a lifelessness to their eyes that Fenris understood all too well. Someone barked out orders for more steam overhead. 

Too suddenly he felt as if he were back in Danarius's suite with the magister's hand around his throat, choking off air. He did not like this place.  

"Hawke-"

"I'm here, Fenris."

Thick fingers laced through his own, and then Hawke was leading him again, down the length of the boiler room dodging amazed stokers and trimmers - _slaves, slaves, slaves,_ Fenris's mind cried - with their wheelbarrows of coal.

"Don't mind us!" Hawke shouted over the din, forcing cheerfulness. "Just passing by! Carry on!" 

They passed through a watertight door, then the fiercely steaming valley between two boilers and yet another set of doors before they were forced to an abrupt halt as the frightening glow of the furnaces extinguished unexpectedly behind them.

Fenris breathed a little easier in the static darkness, though his ears still rang with noise. Screaming of the boilers, snarled commands for more steam, Varania’s warnings turning round and round in his mind, a cacophonous broken record. 

_“No matter where we go, Leto, we will always be slaves.”_

The curse of his birthright dogged him, it seemed, even when he ran from it. All he wanted was to forget, but somehow he knew that terrible truth would haunt him no matter where he went.

Fenris thought back on Hawke drawing his portrait. What could not have been more than ten minutes ago now felt as if it had taken place years in the past. While he'd felt nervous laying naked under Hawke's watchful eye, never once had nerves turned to discomfort. In that hour when Hawke captured his portrait, he'd been content, and before that, when he'd stood with Hawke on the bow of the Somniatis, Hawke's solid warmth behind him and the endless stretch of the Waking Sea before him, he'd been truly happy. 

Was it naïve of him, to want that feeling to last?  Was it selfish? 

_“You've always been a selfish, spoiled thing.”_

Dry lips brushed the side of his face _._ Fenris opened his eyes and stared up at the Fereldan, dragging in the scent of smoke and sweat as Hawke's mouth moved up to kiss his forehead where Fenris could feel perspiration beading heavily, then his other cheek, then the bridge of his nose. 

He sighed and leaned his body into the larger man's, hands sliding up and around Hawke's broad shoulders. "You lead me to strange places, Hawke."

Hawke grinned, promised, "I'll lead you to even stranger places than this," and kissed him deeply in the steamy, pounding darkness. 

Fenris laughed, the sound swallowed up eagerly by Hawke’s mouth, and they stayed wrapped up in each other - hands wandering and tongues increasingly more daring - until Fenris combed a hand through the Fereldan’s dark hair and tipped his head to the side to get a better idea of where _this_ even was. 

Packed tightly all around them were rows and rows of cargo, which gave their location away quite easily. Fenris wondered if Hawke had known at all the direction they were headed, or if luck just happened to guide them to somewhere quietly deserted. 

Compared to the dripping heat of the boiler room, Fenris welcomed the frigid air of the cargo hold - at least for the first few minutes, as it cooled his clammy skin and calmed the arousal that stirred with Hawke's mere proximity. As they ventured down the nearest aisle, however, the chill seeped through Fenris's thin tunic and he was forced to hug himself against the cold as he walked, examining trunk after neatly piled trunk.

At the end of the row, lashed down to a pallet and looking like a carriage straight from a children's fairytale, sat a luxurious touring wagon. Fenris could not hazard whom the vehicle belonged to, but judging from the style he guessed the owner Tevinter. 

All the more satisfying as Fenris approached and ran his hand across the door. Brass trim, headlamps nicely offset by the deep burgundy color. People like himself had been responsible for assembling the vehicle, other slaves for polishing the sleek metal to this unnatural shine, and now a slave would leave fingerprints all along the door. 

Hawke came to stand beside him, gently nudged Fenris's hand aside, and pulled open the door with a grand gesture. 

"Messere."

It was not a big deal - a title spoken in jest, most likely, and not even for the first time - and yet... No one had ever called him that. _Messere_. A designation reserved for someone of equal or higher standing. Hawke did not say it to mock him, but because he honestly meant it. He saw Fenris as an equal and had always treated him as such, even when Fenris gave him no reason to - even when he'd seen firsthand how Danarius treated him as just a pet, a plaything. 

It meant more than he could possibly say. 

Fenris looked at Hawke, took in the way his smiling eyes crinkled at the corners. Affection rushed to swell his heart, and more than anything he wanted to pull Hawke in for another kiss. Instead, however, he let Hawke help him into the carriage. 

The wagon's interior proved equally, disgustingly opulent as its exterior: plush white upholstery over the seats, velvet curtained walls with crystal vases holding a rose on each, and even a little chandelier on the rectangular ceiling. 

The short blast of a horn alerted him that Hawke had taken a seat on the driver's bench. Fenris scooted forward to rest against the little partition separating them. 

"Where to, Messere?" Hawke said, turning to glance over his shoulder. 

Fenris decided quite summarily that he did not like this reversal in class, even if done in play. If he was to be with Hawke he wanted them always on the same level, and so he reached out, curled his arms around the other man. His hands settled on Hawke’s broad chest as he considered their destination.  

Somewhere far away from troubles of the past, where no one knew their faces or names and where they could float in silent bliss, twined around each other and in need of no other solace but that offered by a lover's touch. 

His lips teased the shell of Hawke's ear, hot breath fanning over sensitive skin. "The stars."

With that, he adjusted his grip and dragged the Fereldan bodily into the back seat. Hawke laughed as he landed on the plush passenger bench, and this time Fenris did not resist; he swept in and caught the sound on his lips, tasted Hawke's mirth with his tongue and delighted in it.  

When he pulled back he was breathing heavier, hands fisted around the lapel of Hawke's coat. They sat incredibly close in the spacious compartment, thighs pressed together, and Fenris knew in that moment where that closeness was about to lead. 

Hawke seemed to know as well, as if there had been some palpable change in the air, a cosmic shift in their relationship between the boiler rooms and the seat of some magister's carriage. Or maybe it had happened before, back when Fenris let his robe drop to the carpet of Danarius's suite, posed naked for Hawke to immortalize him on paper.  Maybe it had been destined to happen since Hawke took his hand and pulled him over the railing that first night aboard. 

Hawke reached out and brushed the hair from his eyes. "Are you nervous?" 

Fenris smiled, lashes fluttering as he tilted his head to kiss the rough pads of Hawke's fingers. "No," he said, surprised by his own conviction. With Danarius he'd been terrified of this possibility, but now - with Hawke - he could find not the slightest trace of fear. Only warmth, eagerness - like returning home after a long journey. He shifted closer, moved to gently cup the man’s face in his hands. "Put your hands on me, Garrett."

A sharp intake of breath. Hawke’s brown eyes widened but hands remained rigid at his sides. Fenris wonder if he’d done something wrong. Had he overstepped a boundary, using Hawke’s first name? Was it too intimate?

Fenris swallowed, averting his gaze quickly to the side. Maker, he had no idea what he was doing. He wasn’t... Well, given his station and the comments he’d heard from Varania and Danarius both, Fenris could only assume this would not be his first time laying with a man. But those memories were gone. And even if they hadn’t been forcibly eradicated, they still would not hold the same meaning as what he had hoped was about to unfold now with Hawke.

With Hawke, he _wanted_ – he wanted _so much_. It was not a slave’s place to yearn for anything, but Hawke was the one who showed him how much more he could be than just a slave, who opened his eyes and his heart to all the possibilities available to him if only he reached for them.

And he was reaching... He was reaching for Hawke. Since first meeting the Fereldan he’d been able to think of little else but the man. He wanted him more than he’d ever wanted anything.

But he would not take. He would not push Hawke in a corner; take advantage of the man as Fenris himself had been taken advantage of all his life. This was not gratitude or the starry-eyed infatuation of a maiden for her knight in shining armor. Fenris did not have adequate words to explain his feelings exactly, but he knew without question it was more than that. Were it not, Fenris never would have gone to Hawke on the bow, never would have run with him from Varania. 

Never would have given up a life that had certainty, even as a slave, for the opportunity – marginal though they both knew it was – that Hawke provided. 

Without warning Hawke surged forward, catching Fenris's lips in a searing kiss that shattered all insecurity and left him gasping and shivering and _needing_ so much more. Fenris squeezed Hawke’s wrists, angled his head and pushed his tongue into Hawke's mouth, demanding that need be fulfilled.

Hawke wriggled a hand free to grip the plush bench between them. "Fen—"  

"On _me_ , Hawke," Fenris hissed, impatient, punctuating the command with a sharp little nip to Hawke's bottom lip. 

With an acquiescent groan Hawke obeyed, cupping the elf's cheek. His thumb rubbed Fenris's cheek, just under his eye, and then move down to trace the raised scars under his chin. The lyrium imbedded under the skin shimmered in response to the touch, all the more noticeable in the carriage’s dim light. A strange, tingling pull that Fenris usually experienced around magic followed after.

Fenris sucked in a deep breath, narrowed his eyes. The itch under his skin, the pull of lyrium to a mage’s natural energy, generally preceded pain. Magic had never done anything but bring him harm – but this was _Hawke_. Even if he possessed magic – a possibility Fenris was not quite ready to confront – had Fenris not already admitted he trusted the man? 

"Do they hurt?" Hawke wondered, running his index finger down the slender column of Fenris's throat. 

Fenris exhaled, tipping his head back and more clearly exposing the markings. "No," he whispered. Then he frowned, shook his head because it was different than when the magister’s touched him, or even than when his sister touched him. “They are... uncomfortable, sometimes. Painful when they activate. But like this..." 

He broke off with a desperate little whine as Hawke passed his finger across his Adam's apple, applying light pressure. Green eyes locking on mesmerized honey-brown. The pull was strong, alluring in a way he’d never before experienced – a siren’s call, rather than a warning knell. "Do not stop." 

Hawke kissed him, just a chaste meeting of lips. "Not unless you tell me to."

Again the words robbed him of breath. He stared at Hawke, eyes wide with amazement, before his arms pulled the Fereldan down again. This time Fenris went down with him, letting Hawke's body cover his as he reclined back on the carriage seat. He bent his legs to accommodate the larger body between them, knees at Hawke's hips, and he smiled. "I won't want to do that. I am yours, Hawke." 

A slender finger to Hawke's mouth silenced a budding protest. Carefully the elf maneuvered his body so that Hawke lay on his back staring up at him, his legs straddling the man’s hips. 

Slowly, holding Hawke's gaze with dark, half-lidded eyes, Fenris started to unclasp the buttons holding his tunic together. The gleaming lyrium veins vied for Hawke's attention, but he maintained eye contact with Fenris even when the fabric slipped from narrow bronze shoulders. 

"This is _my_ choice," Fenris said, leaning over him so their mouths barely touched, "and it is not made lightly." He would not put himself in this vulnerable position by offering this – not just his body, but also his heart - to just anyone, and could only pray Hawke understood that.

One hand trailed down, slipped between the folds of Hawke's coat to tease the waistband of his trousers. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I do not know what the future holds for someone like me. Until you appeared, I honestly did not think there would be one at all, but...” His lower lip snagged on his teeth as he swept his gaze over the length of the Fereldan before locking eyes with him again, insistent, “if there is a future to be had, I would gladly walk into it by your side."

Such declarations had obviously not been expected, if the naked shock on the other man’s face was anything to go by. The surprise did not both Fenris; he did not expect any such answering promises from Hawke, only for him to know to some degree the depth of emotion Fenris held for him. 

Fenris did not hide the sigh of relief when Hawke’s arms caged around body, drawing him in. They kissed breathlessly, and every word that Hawke did not say in response to Fenris’s oath rang clear in the fervid clashing of lips and tongues.

Time slipped away, the world narrowing down to just the two of them. Concerns for the future and regrets of the past broke apart, dissolved and scattered like ashes to the wind, until all that remained was the present, two bodies in perfect harmony. The taste and smell of Hawke surrounded him as the Fereldan’s coat, shirt, and boots swiftly joined Fenris's tunic on the floor of the carriage.

Fenris traced each unveiled scar along Hawke's chest and abdomen with a curious hand, wondering at the story behind each, wanting to ask. The swirling path of lyrium around his shoulders that Hawke had taken to mapping with his tongue proved quite distracting.

Fenris squirmed, bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the broken little gasps that threatened and eventually succeeded in juddering free when Hawke sat up and pressed a kiss to the hollow between Fenris's clavicles.

Already he was embarrassingly aroused, the evidence pressing hot against Hawke’s thigh, impossible to hide in the tight leggings he wore. He wondered which was worse - for Hawke to consider him lascivious or painfully virginal – and decided either way it did not matter.

All that mattered was the fact that - unlike whatever unrecalled experiences lay in Fenris's past – Hawke was here with him, wanting him just as much.

Hawke was careful with him, almost maddeningly so. At first Fenris appreciated the sentiment. It was endearing when Hawke paused for approval before reaching down to grasp Fenris through his leggings, and even later, after Hawke had stripped him of even his smallclothes and pointedly, worshipfully kissed scars and points on Fenris’s body that had nothing to do with lyrium – like the slave brand on his foot.

Just a small line of text Fenris could not understand, arranged in a circle and no bigger than a silver coin. A shameful stain upon his skin, revolting, but Hawke cradled his ankle and pressed his lips firmly to the marque as if it were something precious – as if Fenris were something precious. 

He was sure he wept then, because next Hawke was kissing his cheeks and the corners of his eyes as if erasing tear tracks with his lips. And Maker, why did it hurt so badly? His heart was full to bursting, throbbing agonizingly against his ribcage because it was just too much, but somehow not enough, and more than he ever imagined all at once. He wanted to run away but he never wanted to leave. He wanted to curl tight around himself while simultaneously drawing Hawke into him as well.

 _“I see_ you _.”_

Since that first night on the back of the ship Hawke had seen the parts of himself Fenris did not know where there, the parts Fenris wanted to deny existed. His strength of mind and independent spirit – those qualities dangerous for any slave to possess – Hawke had shown him those things. He’d been right when he said Fenris would never jump, even if he was scared or out of his element. He would not jump.

Nor would he run. Even if Hawke’s tenderness reduced him to tears, he would not hide. There would be no reason to, because Hawke saw, Hawke knew what he felt even better than Fenris himself.

“Hawke, please.” He slid his hand into black hair and raised his hips with clear intent, mouth dropping open in a silent moan as Hawke reached down to fondle him, still so gently. He bucked into the touch, needing - _needing._ “Please." 

Hawke slid down his body, hovering over the leaking head of Fenris’s erection just long enough for the elf to loose a broken curse in Tevene before swallowing him down. Fenris jolted, eyes flying open in equal parts pleasure and horror because he was sure – he was positive – that no one had ever used their mouth on him before.

For one man to do such a thing to another, it was... It was not thought well of. The job of a catamite prostitute or a favored slave.

But Hawke did not look as if he were doing anything unsavory. Fenris propped himself up to take in the flush of arousal on Hawke’s face, the way his cheeks hollowed as he sucked. He twisted his fingers in the Fereldan’s black hair and fought to contain just how much he enjoyed the wet heat of Hawke’s mouth. Hawke should not have to debase himself to be with him; Fenris would not let him. “You—you don’t have to,” he panted. “Hawke... d-don’t—”

Hawke raised his eyes, hummed around the shaft. Fenris stifled a moan, his head falling back against the cushion.

“This is not beneath me,” Hawke assured him, laying an open-mouthed kiss the tip of his flushed cock and then nosing the sensitive crease where Fenris’s hip joined his leg. “There’s no part of you I wouldn’t want to kiss, or touch. Nothing about you is unworthy.”

Fenris gazed up at the ceiling, unseeing, the unfathomable words turning over in his mind.

Hawke moved up the length of his body to nip the point of his ear. “You are incredible, Fenris.”

 _No_ , Fenris thought, fighting against a new wave of tears stinging his eyes; _I am lucky._ You _are incredible, Hawke._  

There were no more words after that, both men lost so deeply in the other to even want to concentrate on forming them. The remaining barriers between them fell away with the last of Hawke’s clothes, and then they were skin-to-skin, heart to heart, and Fenris was sure again.

They undulated against one another, the echoing slap of skin against sweat-slicked skin and the breathy gasps and drawn-out moans that increased in frequency the only sounds as as they neared completion. 

Hawke slid his hand down Fenris's chest, over his abdominals muscles that shivered and jumped at the light touch and the sharp jut of his hip before his fingers gently cupped around Fenris's sac. 

Fenris huffed out a sharp breath of air, bucking reflexively into the touch, his head thrown back in abandon. _Too much, too much, not enough._ A torture unlike Fenris had ever experienced: one of ecstasy, where Hawke drew out every excruciatingly pleasurable moment. Thrusting against him then backing off, letting Fenris breathe then stealing the capability from him entirely with every move he made. 

" _A-Amato... Non posso... liberami_."

The words, dialect of the _servus_ , tumbled from Fenris’s lips before he even realized it. He was beyond desperation, but could not say what for. He wanted release – it teetered just out of his grasp, and only Hawke could bring him the rest of the way – but at the same time he wanted to stay forever suspended in this in-between with Hawke, with his insides wound tight and vibrating with anticipation of euphoria.

Hawke moaned in response, his cock twitching with excitement where it lay throbbing against Fenris’s thigh. He’d not taken Fenris, even if there’d been temptation on both ends. 

Fenris kept going – " _liberami— libera, Amato_... _L-lasciami_ …" – and blessedly Hawke obliged to the pleas. He wrapped his large hand around the base of both their erections, each weeping pre-cum against a taught stomach, and began to stroke fervidly. 

 _To the stars_ , Fenris had requested, and he swore he saw those stars now, dancing just beyond his reach, bright and burning and growing more intense by the second.

 _Liberami – free me._ Build him up, unclip his wings and let him fly. Wind in his face, future spread out before him. Nothing to hold him back or pin him down, soaring as high and as far as he dared go. He wanted it; he was so close.

A clever twist of the wrist and Fenris cried out, thrusting into Hawke’s hand. His arm flew back, hand smacking against the window behind him and leaving a foggy trail of fingers in its wake as he reached— _reached_ — touched elusive stardust and then tipped blissfully over the edge.

Free at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine the slaves would speak a different dialect of Tevene than the 'educated' magisters and nobles, thus I've made Italian the servus/slave dialect. 
> 
> Amato- beloved  
> Non posso - I cannot  
> Liberami - free me  
> Libera - free  
> Lasciami... - let me... [implied: let me come]


	11. Chapter 11

Donnic shivered, rubbed his hands together and stared out into the placid stretch of darkness. After an hour up in the crow's nest with Samson and he was nearly ready to fling himself from the foremast, and he was sure such a desire was not an exaggeration. 

"You can sense ice, y'know," Samson was saying, moving his arms and stamping his feet as a means to keep warm. Figured they were stuck with the late shift on the coldest night aboard.  

Donnic rolled his eyes, not buying it for a second. "Horse shit."

Samson puffed out his chest, indignant. "Well _I_ can," he countered with a sniff. "When it's near. I can smell it." He looked out over the calm sea, squinting his bloodshot eyes.

Donnic wondered fleetingly at whatever happened to the binoculars that were supposed to make this job a fair deal easier, but a commotion from the deck below drew his attention. Two figures emerged from a crew door clinging to each other as they shook with laughter; one large and clearly a human male while the other possessed the willowy build and long pointed ears of an elf. 

"—you imagine the look on their faces?" The human’s voice reached above the harsh wind to the two men in the lookout. 

Donnic shook his head, smiling, more than a little envious when the elf grinned wolfishly and backed the man up against the nearest railing to kiss him. He nudged Samson and jerked his head toward the pair. "Would you look at that?" 

Samson did, and scoffed. 

"They're a sight warmer than we are." Donnic sighed, rubbing his hands again and squawking irately when the other man shoved him.  

"If that's what it takes for us two to get warm," Samson groused, still eyeing the man and the elf on the deck, "I'd rather freeze!" He grinned and laughed, and Donnic couldn't help but join in. Samson, after all, would never be his first choice in partner - sexual or otherwise - and he was sure the same held true in reverse. 

The merriment died quite abruptly as Donnic's gaze passed over the still waters, double-taking as he spotted for the first time the ominous shadow looming hardly five hundred yards ahead. Color drained from his face as he gripped the rail of the crow's nest, straining his eyes and praying the late hour was merely playing tricks on his mind. 

Samson raised an eyebrow, but Donnic's panic must have been etched clearly on his face for the man offered not even the slightest complaint as he was roughly pushed aside so Donnic could ring the alarm bell. He looked out over the water and blanched. "Bugger me..."

Donnic grabbed him by the lapels of his uniform. "Smell ice, can you?" With a short of disgust he grabbed the small phone that connected the lookout to the Bridge. "Warn them! We've got a 'berg dead ahead. We need full speed astern. Hard a'starboard. I need to find the Captain." 

With that, he hopped to the ladder.  Over the wind in his ears he heard Samson's frustrated, "pick up, damn you!" as he descended, and the roiling in his gut only intensified. 

 

\- - - 

Hawke could not remember the last time he'd felt so completely at ease. They'd lain together, he and Fenris, in the back seat of a magister's carriage as the sweat cooled on their skin, caressing each other and exchanging languid kisses and almost summoning the energy for another round until the clang of a heavy door sprang them into a different kind of action. Then it had been hurried redressing and stifled laughter as they negotiated a way out from the cargo hold back to the main deck, pursued every step of the way by whomever Varania had sent after them in her stead. 

At his insistence, Fenris donned Hawke's coat, pulling the hood up to hide his distinctive features - though once they slipped out the crew exit and the wind assaulted them the disguise proved fruitless. The hood whipped back and Fenris's white hair swept up into disarray, and as he had on the bow of the ship earlier he closed his eyes and seemed to bask in it. Hawke admired the attractive flush to the elf's face, reached out and skimmed a high cheekbone with his fingertips. 

"Can you imagine the look on their faces?" They'd hardly left the carriage in pristine order; more than enough evidence of what transpired between them remained behind, and neither man could bring himself to care. "That magister will probably be furious." 

"Good." 

Fenris's eyes opened, a playful, predatory gleam in them that spiked Hawke's heart rate. He allowed the elf to back him up against the starboard railing, happily forgot about the fact that someone might barge through that service door to apprehend them, and hummed into Fenris's mouth as their lips slotted together. Large hands slid to narrow hips, Hawke pulling the elf flush against him, and when they broke for air Fenris made a sound partway between a laugh and a sigh. 

"When the ship docks," he whispered, leaning close so they were cheek to cheek, "I'm getting off with you."

Even without the past hour to cloud his judgment, Hawke wouldn't have been able to accept it any other way. Sure, it made things a hell of a lot more dangerous for the two of them, but no way in the Void could he leave Fenris in Danarius's clutches. Not after he'd seen firsthand how the manipulative lecher treated his supposed 'favorite.'

Looking back on the events that led them to this point, he couldn’t help but chuckle. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he'd be showing up in Kirkwall with a former slave in tow. He could already imagine the fit Carver would throw when he found out – though he was sure Fenris’s special abilities would shut his brother up most efficiently.

" _Maker_." Hawke pressed his lips to the peculiar arrangement of dots at the center of Fenris's forehead, smiling against warm skin. "This is crazy, even for me."  

"I know." Fenris shifted, tucked his head beneath Hawke's chin, and Hawke tightened his arms around the elf. "I have never..." He huffed and shook his head a little, fingers kneading Hawke's lapel with nervous energy. "You have already done more for me than I can explain. It's a debt I'll never be able to repay, I know, but I meant what I said before. I am yours, Hawke. To my knowledge, I have never... _willingly_ made that pledge to anyone. It may not compensate..."

Hawke couldn't stand to hear any more. Listening to how little Fenris still thought of himself twisted like a rusted dagger to his heart, so he hooked a finger under a pointed chin, jerked Fenris's face up and kissed him soundly before any more self-corroding poison could spill from those full lips.

"You owe me nothing," he said after they'd parted, ragged breaths escaping them in little white clouds. "Do you understand? There is no debt. Having you at my side is a bonus reward, if anything." 

Fenris attempted to turn his head, but Hawke kept him in place. His eyes skid nevertheless to the deck. "You are too kind, Hawke. I—" 

Hawke kissed him again, fiercely this time, maneuvering them so he had Fenris between his body and the rail. Fenris groaned softly, tangling his hands in Hawke's hair and giving in. 

A subtle juddering beneath their feet distracted Hawke enough to pull back, and his eyes widened at the wall of solid ice rising up behind Fenris. He stepped back, instinctively pulling the elf to his side and away from the railing. Dark brows furrowed in confusion before Fenris turned and gaped at the sight. The iceberg stretched high, as if intending to blot out the moon and pierce the very heavens. 

"Andraste's arse," Hawke murmured, resisting the urge to pinch himself. He didn't think bergs could grow so large in these waters. 

A chunk of ice knocked loose from the impact and came hurtling down toward them. Fenris's reflexes kicked in lightening-fast. Without warning he slammed into Hawke, knocking the Fereldan back several feet and out of the ice's path. The force of the impact left Hawke dizzy. 

"You're not as light as you look," he accused, watching the blue glow of the lyrium brands along Fenris's arms fade to dormancy. 

Fenris winced, apologetic. "Are you hurt?" He asked, offering a hand. Hawke waved the concern away and composed himself without assistance, and together they both stared at the shadowed monstrosity now behind the Somniatis. "Could it have damaged the ship?"

There had undeniably been impact, but how severe was impossible for Hawke to say. The ice dislodged from the berg rested innocently on the deck several feet away. "Didn't feel like too horrible a bump. Still..." He approached the rail and leaned over, checking the hull of the ship. The darkness made it difficult to gauge, but no noticeable damage jumped out at him. "Looks fine." 

Fenris had his lips pressed into a thin line, a worried crease between his brows serving well to show how much relief Hawke's observation brought him. 

"I'm sure it's okay," Hawke offered, settling a hand on Fenris's elbow. Following the gentle coaxing Fenris relaxed a little, though his mouth remained anxiously pinched. "Maybe they'll need to repaint, but I can't imagine anything more serious than a few scratches."

Another glance to the sea and the iceberg long behind them, and then Fenris nodded. By this point, a small crowd had gathered on the deck, other passengers straining for a sight of the monstrous threat that had risen and quietly disappeared in speedy succession, others laughing and kicking at the chunks of ice melting on the floorboards. 

 

\- - -

Cullen Rutherford hustled into the room, tucking in his shirt as he moved. It was the shuddering that awoke him first, but the unmistakable clang of the alarm that had him jumping from his cot and making a beeline for the bridge. The alarm could very well have been unnecessary, the cause for it something his second-in-command capable of handling on her own, but instinct overruled those hopes. 

Donnic Hendyr, who'd been stationed in the crow's nest for the night, accosted him the second he entered, and the sheer panic etched plain as day on his face froze the blood in Cullen's vein's.  

"What's going on, Hendyr?"

Donnic swallowed, opened his mouth, but it was a few moments before sound actually came out. "Iceberg, sir. We called down here... Pentaghast put her hard a'starboard and run her engines full astern, but it was too close. Tried to port around it, but she hit— and I..."

Even if the man had continued from there, Cullen didn't think he'd have heard a word of it, so consumed was his mind with the thought, _she hit_. 

 _Andraste watch over us_. 

"Close the emergency doors."

"The order's already been given," Donnic assured, and that at least was a small relief. 

Together they strode onto the starboard wing, Donnic pointing out a hulking shadowed mass in the near distance. 

"Where's Pentaghast now?” He wouldn’t put it past the woman to physically search the entire ship herself for signs of damage.

"Gone to fetch Magister Alexius. Figured he'd be the surest bet to sound the ship."

Cullen nodded, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He couldn't say he liked having so many Tevinter magister aboard, but their talents could prove useful depending on the severity of the damage. 

He sent a prayer up to the Maker that they would not need to even rely on that assistance. 

 

\- - -

It was fucking _loud_. Isabela groaned and lifted her head from the pillow, her hangover not thanking her in the slightest. She'd vow to go easy on the ale next time - but, well, that just wasn’t going to happen. Curled up on the bunk beside her, Merrill snored softly. Isabela didn't think it was possible for someone to snore _cutely_ , but Merrill managed to pull it off somehow. Maybe it was an elven gift. 

Sighing, Isabela stretched and curled her arm around Merrill's waist, fingers brushing lazily over naked skin. Merrill hummed and murmured indecipherably and turned onto her back, and Isabela had a strong sudden urge to lean over and kiss her. Normally she wouldn't think twice, but another round of shouts from beyond the cabin gave her pause. 

"What's all the blighted fuss about?" With a sigh, Isabela hoisted herself up and out of bed – only to shout when instead of the floorboards she expected her feet met with several inches of freezing water. "Bloody flames!" 

Fumbling in the dark, she managed to make it to an oil lamp. 

"...'Bela," Merrill called from the bunk, airy voice thick with sleep. "Is something happening?"

Isabela stared at the water that reached her ankles for a long moment before splashing her way over to the door, throwing on a tunic as she went. The door opened without problem, but the hallway was lightly flooded as well. A leak, maybe? Seeing the harried expressions on her fellow passenger's faces didn't leave here with optimism for the problem being so minor, and as if to tighten the knot of mounting dread Aveline rounded the corner heralded by a scampering of over a dozen rats. 

Several women shrieked and pressed themselves against the nearest wall to avoid the rodents. 

"Aveline!"  

The woman turned, relief flashing across her eyes. "You're awake! Have you seen Hawke?"

Last Isabela knew Fenris had gone in search of the Fereldan. By the look in his eyes she'd had an inkling what the two might get up to, but not where. "Not since he left the room earlier." She jerked her chin to the right. "Think the rats are headed toward dryer ground?" 

Aveline nodded. "I imagine. Filthy creatures, but clever." 

The door opened wider to reveal Merrill fully dressed and smiling serenely as nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "If that's the way they were going it's good enough for me. I don't fancy a swim in this ice water."

\- - -

Gereon Alexius looked up from the spread of blueprints laid out on the table before him, alerted of trouble by the delicate tinkling of the crystal chandelier overhead. He watched the shaking crystals for a moment, a thoughtful frown tugging at his lips, before casting his eyes to the china cabinet against the wall to his left. Sure enough, the contents behind the glass rattled restlessly.  

"Master?"  

The cautious voice spoke up from the doorway, and then a cup and saucer entered Alexius's line of vision. Rather than the elf, Alexius focused on the tea churning like an angry sea within the cup when Elyan found a free corner of the table to set it down. 

"Will that be all, Master?" Elyan asked, and now Alexius did look at the boy, wondering if his rising suspicion was completely unwarranted. 

The pressing matter should be the altercation that occurred earlier that evening; something about Elyan being complicit with Magister Danarius's favorite running off with a Fereldan refugee – serious allegations, which should have earned more of a punishment from Alexius than the bruise darkening the boy's cheek. He’d fully intended to see that punishment through once Fenris was located and dragged back to where he belonged, but now as he studied the Elyan's wide violet eyes all he could think of was the boy's chance of survival if anything aboard the ship went wrong.

Elyan was a slave. It should not matter what happened to him, especially after the insult his recent misbehavior brought upon his master's house. And yet Alexius felt responsible for every soul aboard. Somniatis was his design, any of her failures testaments of his own shortcomings. 

Taking quite a different meaning from the silent scrutiny, Elyan dropped to his knees, shoulders trembling imperceptibly. 

A furious pounding on the door silenced the imminent apologies before they could stutter out from Elyan's mouth. In an instant the boy was on his feet and opening the door to the suite with a meek bow to his neck. 

Cassandra Pentaghast burst into the room as if it were not an inconvenient hour of the night. Alexius tensed, apprehension rising at the ashen quality to the chief officer's complexion. Nervous tension crackled in the air, and the unspoken volumes written across the normally stoic woman's face spurred Alexius into action.  He crossed to the bedroom and threw open the wardrobe, locating the two flotation vests within.

He tossed both of them to Elyan when he returned to the receiving room, and the boy fumbled to catch them, stammering, "M-Master?"

"Put one on," Alexius instructed, careful not to let his worry seep too deeply into his voice. The elf hurried to obey, clumsy fingers working at the flotation vest's many straps. "Bring the other with you. Find Felix."

Elyan looked up from the last of the straps, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. "Shall I bring him back to the suite?" 

Without thinking, Alexius reached out and laid a gentle healing spell upon the boy's cheek. In light of Pentaghast's expression and urgently tapping boot, he figured the evening's earlier misdemeanor inconsequential now. The elf stared at him, jaw slack with disbelief as Alexius patted him on the head. He did not think he'd ever treated his slaves cruelly, but undoubtedly this level of kindness was beyond expectation, and the thought shamed Alexius now. 

"Stay above deck," he requested. "You and Felix keep those vests on and... Find a boat, if you can." The likelihood of anyone letting an elven slave aboard the boats in the case of evacuation were slim, Alexius knew, but perhaps Felix could arrange something. _Maker... Felix._

Elyan frowned. "A boat, master?"

Alexius shooed him out. "Go quickly."

Elyan scurried to the door, hesitated only a moment to throw a worried glance over his shoulder, and then he was gone. 

Alexius did not breathe any easier. He longed to go with the slave, track his son down and personally haul him onto the nearest boat to ensure his safety. As it stood, he had to trust in the loyalty of a person who could very easily – and probably had every right to – turn his back on them all to look after his own interests.

But no. Tonight’s events notwithstanding, Elyan had always served the Alexius family well, and he knew for a fact the boy got along with both Felix and Dorian Pavus, that there was even a tentative friendship between the three – or as much of a friendship as could exist within their classes. Alexius had no choice but to put his faith in that amity. 

He turned to the Somniatis's second-in-command and braced himself. "How bad is it?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hey I haven't abandoned this story after all! Maybe I'll even finish it!

Fenris pushed Hawke back against the railing to avoid three men rushing to get to the stairwell. Hawke recognized one of them from the dinner he’d attended in first class – Gereon Alexis, the ship’s chief designer. Fenris identified the second man, Ferelden by the look of him, as Captain Rutherford. The third, an officer, neither of them knew, but they all looked equally grim, speaking to each other in urgent whispers.

 

“She's taking on water fast,” the officer was explaining, “in the forepeak tank and the forward holds, in boiler room six.”

 

“Can your people do anything?” the captain asked, turning to Alexius in distress.

 

Alexius shook his head. “Give us time, at most. Magic cannot work miracles, I’m afraid, and a ship of this size...” Whatever else he might have said was lost as the men descended the stairs to the well deck.

 

Hawke exhaled slowly. Further down a group of gentlemen assembled with heavy formal cloaks thrown over their nightgowns grumbled about being roused for apparently nothing. Indeed none of the passengers they’d seen since the _Somniatis’s_ collision with the iceberg seemed very worried at all. If not for the conversation they’d just overheard Hawke might have been equally as optimistic.

 

If on a ship full of mages the best they could be given was time, how much hope could there be?

 

“It’s bad,” Fenris surmised. His eyes, narrowed and glowing faintly in the dark, were cast out toward the open sea.

 

If the ship was taking on water at such alarming speed it was entirely possible that those in steerage were already seeing signs of the damage. As much as he worried for Isabela, Merrill, and Aveline he knew the women were all fully capable of taking care of themselves. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check in on them, and stick together after that point. They were his travel companions, the closest thing he had family on the _Somniatis_.

 

Speaking of family... Hawke glanced down at Fenris again, hesitated a moment. “You should warn your sister.” The elf stiffened, immediately defensive. Hawke read the rising argument in his expression and held up a pacifying hand. “Look, I don’t know your history—”

 

“Nor do I,” Fenris spat, “a fact for which she is largely responsible.”

 

Varania was responsible for the loss of Fenris’s memories? Hawke searched the elf’s eyes, finding contempt but nothing to suggest the man was exaggerating or placing undue blame. Nevertheless...

 

“Listen... I’ve lost a sibling, and it’s... There’s nothing worse than being haunted by the feeling that there might have been something I could have done to save her. Fenris.” He placed a hand gently on the slave’s shoulder, hating the way Fenris would not look at him. “I’m not saying you need to stay with her, or forgive her for whatever she’s done to you. Just... warn her. If the situation is really as bad as the captain and Alexius seem to think... you will want to at least have given her that chance.”

 

There was a moment where Hawke feared Fenris might refuse. If that were the case, Hawke wouldn’t force him. The first step in taking back his freedom was Fenris making choices for himself – no matter if Hawke agreed with him or not. Hawke just hoped Fenris would be able to live with the repercussions of those decisions.

 

The elf’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his nostrils flaring as he battled whatever demons the thought of his sister awakened in him. Then, in a voice made soft with insecurity: “you will come with me?”

 

Hawke pulled him into his arms. The tension slowly ebbed from Fenris’s shoulders and with a small amount of hesitance he returned the embrace. “You jump I jump, remember?”

\- - -

 

_‘Now you can keep me locked up forever.’_

Danarius did not recognize the handwriting, though the signature at the bottom of the portrait made needing to unnecessary. And the message, even without the note, was loud and clear. Fenris was moving against him – again. Reaching for a freedom that had never belonged to him. Danarius had hoped this rebellious fire in his slave would die out when the slave was recaptured and his memories wiped back in Ferelden, and indeed that seemed the case at first... With every passing hour since boarding the _Somniatis_ , however, Fenris seemed to slip farther and farther away from his master’s control.

 

His eyes swept over the lean lines of Fenris’s body, locking momentarily on the blue diamond at the slave’s throat. Sheer impudence - using the gift Danarius intended to give him upon their return to Minrathous! He’d always been an ungrateful thing, Fenris, even brazen at times; but, being the favorite, Danarius had always indulged him. It wasn’t until now he understood the consequences for his lenience.

Danarius crumpled the portrait in his hand, anger burning in his veins.

 

‘Locked up,’ did he see it? The magister wanted to laugh. If Fenris thought of his place in Danarius’s service as an incarceration now, he was certainly in for a rude awakening. He’d have the elf collared and leashed and not even daring to breathe without permission. Whatever part of Danarius that had remained optimistic about his little wolf looking on him with fondness again was gone, this latest insult enough to incinerate the last of it.

 

Across the room, the slave’s much more sensible older sister stood in the open doorway, looking out for a sign of her brother’s return. Danarius had alerted the ship’s authorities about his stolen property as soon as he’d noticed the drawing on his bed, and his impatience was growing that it was taking so long for a lyrium-infused elf and a burly Ferelden refugee to be located. Even aboard a ship of this side there was only so many places to hide.

  
Varania stepped aside, the quick movement catching her master’s attention immediately, but it was Hadriana who bustled into the room, her expression typically cross.

 

“Why have the engines stopped?” she demanded. “I felt a shudder.”

 

Danarius rolled his eyes. The comfort of his apprentice was the least of his worries right now. “We’ve likely thrown a propeller blade,” he explained with equal exasperation. “Hardly my immediate concern.”

 

For the first time Hadriana noticed the presence of the ship’s Master of Arms, as well as another officer who was currently sweeping the room for any sign of thievery or other nefarious deeds. “What’s going on here?”

 

Danarius passed the drawing discreetly to her. “It appears I’ve been robbed,” he explained.

 

Hadriana unfolded the parchment, her eyes widening and an angry flush painting her cheeks as she noted both the model and the artist. “That worthless—”

 

“I assure you, Magister Danarius,” said the Master of Arms, an Orlesian man by the name of Stroud, “we’re doing everything we can to locate your lost... property.”

 

A right lot of good that seemed to be. Typical Orlesian; all talk and no action. Before Danarius could retort, Varania spoke up from the doorway.

 

“They come, master.”

 

Danarius caught the girl’s eye, and they exchanged meaningful looks. Before he’d called for the Master of Arms Danarius had given her very specific instructions on what to do should her errant brother be foolish enough to return with his new lover. Varania fidgeted but nodded her head; she hadn’t forgotten. The moment Fenris and Hawke stepped cautiously into the suite she slipped behind the Fereldan unnoticed, a quick movement transferring the diamond choker from her hand to the pocket of the gentleman’s coat Hawke wore.

 

Noticing the gathered crowd Fenris immediately started to shrink back in on himself – only to stop as the Fereldan’s hand settled on his waist, its presence enough to bolster the elf’s confidence enough that he spoke first. “Something serious has happened.”

 

One slight after another. Danarius bristled. “Indeed it has,” he said, and gestured sharply. Stroud acted immediately, crossing the room in purposeful strides and forcibly separating the two lovers. Fenris was shoved to the side where Varania caught and held him in place. “Two of my dearest possessions have been lost this evening. Now that one is back” – here he glared at Fenris – “I have a good idea where to find the other.”

 

Predictably Hawke stepped forward in defense of the slave. “Fenris is not a possession,” he snarled, at the same time the Master of Arms instructed, “coat off, son.”

 

Stroud pulled at the coat insistently but allowed Hawke the dignity of removing it on his own. Hawke shook his head, annoyed, but shrugged out of the coat and passed it to Stroud, who wasted no time searching through the pockets. “This is nugshit.”

 

“Danarius, we have a real emergency—”

 

A well-aimed slap from Hadriana silenced the words, the edge of the heavy dawnstone ring on her finger catching the corner of Fenris’s mouth and leaving a thin smudge of blood in its wake. “That’s ‘Master Danarius’ to you, slave. After what you’ve done, how dare you even think you have the right to say anything?”

 

The markings on Fenris’s arms flickered with agitation, but the fury in his eyes swiftly drained to stunned disbelief when Stroud pulled the blue diamond collar from within the left side pocket of Hawke’s cloak. Beside him, Varania fixed her eyes on the floor.

 

“Is this the one?”

 

Hawke stared at the collar, mouth hanging open. Danarius wanted to laugh. Instead he affected an air of relief as he crossed and took the jewelry from the Master of Arms to examine it. “Yes, this is it,” he confirmed.

 

Stroud gave a single nod and twisted one of Hawke’s arms behind his back. The Fereldan made a short, pained sound, his eyes darting urgently over to where Fenris stood. Danarius could practically see the gears turning in Fenris’s mind, the slave processing not just what had happened by what it insinuated about his and Hawke’s relationship.

 

Hawke seemed to reach the conclusion at the same time for he struggled against Stroud’s hold in earnest. “Don’t you believe it, Fenris—”

 

Fenris shook his head, not wanting to accept he might have been used but unable to deny the evidence in Danarius’s hands. Someone more intelligent may have been able to detect the ruse, but... Well, slaves really were simple creatures.

 

“I was with him the whole time,” Fenris said, still trying to make sense of the situation.

 

Varania looked over at her brother then, her green eyes narrow. Guilty though she may have felt, there was anger in her as well – and understandably so. Fenris had jeopardized much more than his own safety thanks to his stint with Garrett Hawke. “Perhaps he did it when you were putting your clothes back on.”

 

“Sly bastards – they must have slipped it in my pocket,” Hawke realized, yanking against Stroud’s hold once again.

 

Fenris bit his lip, wanting to believe it; desperate to trust in whatever false promises Hawke had sold him.

 

“Isn’t even your pocket, is it?” The second officer held up the discarded coat, indicating the label on the inside of the collar. “Property of Livius Erimond.”

 

Stroud sighed. “That was reported stolen this morning.”

 

Hawke floundered a moment, caught between who to explain himself to first. “Borrowed,” he stressed, “I borrowed it, yes, but with every intention of returning it.”

 

It really couldn’t have been a more perfect way to cement the notion in Fenris’s mind that he’d been lied to. Danarius saw the idea take root, watched as betrayal splintered across his handsome face, dousing the last of the fire in his eyes and making his shoulders sag in defeat. Danarius came to stand beside him as Hawke was dragged out of the room.

 

“I didn’t do it Fenris! You know it – you know me!”

 

Danarius took Fenris by the waist. Fenris flinched but made no effort to pull away.

 

\- - -

 

Hawke had lied to him.

 

He was back in his master’s suite, securely under Danarius’s thumb once more and undoubtedly the magister planned to teach him a lesson to ensure that wasn’t forgotten any time soon. He should be frightened, should be furious, and yet...

 

Hawke had lied to him.

 

The thought settled over him heavily, weighing down his shoulders and breaking the proud straight line of his back. A slave had no use for pride, for standing tall on his feet. And Hawke had proven once and for all that Fenris really was just a slave, a tool to take advantage of.

 

Had he planned it from the start? Every word, every glance – every gentle touch of the hand and searing kiss?

 

Fenris shuddered as he thought of himself on the bow of Somniatis, Hawke’s arms holding his outstretched to give him the sense of flying. Freedom, he’d thought he’d been experiencing freedom for the first time. Hawke giving him wings to fly... But those arms had caged around him after that ( _no, Hawke had been holding him, right?),_ Hawke’s mouth claiming his ( _no, hadn’t Fenris kissed him first?_ ), and how could Fenris not have seen that he had only been trading one master for another?

 

Idiot. _Idiot_.

 

Varania was right; he was a fool to think things could ever be different.

 

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

 

Hadriana had gone back to her own suite down the hall, taking Varania with her and leaving Fenris entirely at his master’s mercy. Ordinarily he might have been cowed by the imminent punishment, but as it were he only felt hollow.

 

Used from the start. Hawke had seen him dangling over the bow of the ship and sensed opportunity – a stupid slave lost enough to contemplate throwing himself into the freezing water, desperate to be worth _something_ to _anyone_. It hadn’t taken much at all. A few kind words, some empty promises. Fenris had wanted _so badly_ to believe in Hawke. _You jump, I jump_... It had seemed so genuine. It still did, the words ringing loud and true in his heart, untarnished by the ugly tint that seemed to have coalesced every other memory he had with the Fereldan.

 

_You don’t belong to anyone._

 

Fenris closed his eyes against the surge of emotion threatening to rise. “No, master,” he said, voice thick. When he opened his eyes again his lashes felt wet, but he refused to acknowledge the tears. “This slave has learned his place.”

 

_No matter where we go, we will always be slaves._

 

Danarius circled him like a predator, and Fenris was very much aware of being sized up as the prey. He kept his head bowed, arms relaxed at his sides, and when the inevitable order came he did not even twitch in surprise.

 

“Strip.”

 

Muted movements, mechanic – nothing like the bashful, blossoming passion that had fueled him with Hawke. Fenris’s heart ached at the memory, still so fresh in his mind: he and Hawke in the backseat of that carriage, limbs entangled and breaths intermingling, lips kiss-bruised and the air perfumed by the musky scent of sweat and arousal.

 

_Nothing about you is unworthy,_ Hawke had said. _You’re incredible_ , Hawke had said.

 

_I am yours_ , Fenris had said. Just given himself away.

 

His clothes hit the floor without sound. In this very room not three hours ago he’d bared himself much the same way to Hawke’s studious eyes, beside this very lounge seat. Danarius had to realize. Fenris inclined his head to the side, tangled white hair falling over his shoulder as he looked at where he’d draped himself across the cushions. It had been a foolish act, a spiteful rebellion that had come full circle to bite him, and yet...

 

In that moment, lying naked with only the jeweled collar at his throat, Hawke’s eyes on him as he rendered the elf’s image in charcoal, Fenris never felt more powerful.

 

“Ready little slut, aren’t you?”

 

Fenris didn’t say anything, the insult inconsequential in the wake of his greater heartbreak. The lack of response clearly frustrated Danarius, however, for he growled and reached out with rough hands, grabbing Fenris by the shoulders and jerking him closer.

 

“Look at me, you knife-eared—”

 

A knock at the door followed by an urgent voice announced the steward’s arrival. The dwarven man glanced uncomfortably between master and slave before coughing and pretending as if he hadn’t walked in on anything out of the ordinary.

 

“Messere, I’ve been told to ask you to please put on your lifebelt, and come up to the boat deck.”

 

“Get out,” Danarius snapped, not taking his eyes off of Fenris. “We’re busy.”

 

The steward went about his business as if invited. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience but its Captain’s orders,” he explained as he fetched to life vests from the nearest closet. He gave one to Danarius without a word, but stooped to reach down and pick up Fenris’s discarded clothes before passing them, along with the second vest, to the elf. His smile was warm, understanding as he patted the tops of Fenris’s hands. “Best dress warm. It’s a cold night.”

 

As quickly as he’d come the steward left, but the sounds of knocking and rousing of other guests on the floor could still be heard.

 

“This is ridiculous,” Danarius huffed, carding a hand through his hair. Nevertheless, he fetched himself a cloak to throw over the robe he’d yet to change out of from dinner.

 

Fenris stared at the lifebelt in his hands and remembered pushing Hawke out of the way of a falling chunk of ice. Time, Gereon Alexius had told the captain. Mages could only buy the ship time.

 

Had they already run out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr - @actual-pixie


	13. Chapter 13

Gereon Alexius's hands shook as he unfurled one of the several blueprints he'd carried to the chartroom with him. This one depicted a side view of the Somniatis and its watertight bulkheads. Hovering on either side of him were Captain Cullen Rutherford and Donnic Hendyr, the officer who'd been on lookout when the ship struck the berg. On the opposite end of the room, pacing nervously and clutching a chantry pendant around her neck, was second-in-command Cassandra Pentaghast. 

 

"Water," Alexius said, smoothing down the paper. "Fourteen feet above the keel in ten minutes... in the forepeak... in all three holds... and in boiler room six, you said?"

 

Cullen nodded in confirmation and Alexius cursed under his breath. Even if he gathered every Mage on this ship and set them to work, the damage was already too great. In addition, the Southerners were testy about magic; would they even allow the assistance? How could they not if it would save even one life? 

 

The door to the chartroom banged open. Halward Pavus strode in, dressed with a heavy cloak pulled haphazardly over his nightgown and looking exasperated to have even been called from his suite at this late hour. The demeanor would change, Alexius knew, once Halward learned the gravity of the situation. As protective a father as Alexius could be Halward was even more so. Maker, their sons... Felix. Had Elyan found him by now? Felix had to know something was amiss. Dorian too. They were intelligent boys.

 

"When can we get underway again?" Halward demanded, looking to the captain impatiently. 

 

Alexius's lips formed a thin line. He tapped the paper with his index finger. "Five compartments," he said, bringing focus back to what mattered. “She can stay afloat with the first four compartments breached, but not five. As she goes down by the head, the water will spill over the tops of the bulkheads..."

 

"As she goes down," Cassandra echoed, clutching the ornament around her neck with a force that turned her knuckles white. 

 

"Maker," Cullen breathed, casting a beseeching glance skyward. "There is no stopping it?"

 

"The mages," Cassandra interjected, voice rising in desperation. "Gather every magister, every Circle mage aboard. Offer pardons for any apostate who comes forward to aid us."

 

A brilliant idea, if the situation were more optimistic. "The mages might buy us time, but minutes only. From this moment, I'm afraid, no matter what we do... _Somniatis_ will founder."

 

Halward scoffed, looking very much as if he expected his friend to reveal this as an elaborate, if distasteful joke. "This ship can't sink!"

 

Alexius felt no pleasure in correcting him. "She is made of iron, Halward. I assure you she can. And she will.” He indicated the map again; the compartments he'd indicated had already been flooded. They'd poured over these plans together at the time of _Somniatis's_ conception. Halward had been with him every step of the way to contest every foundational decision Alexius made. “It is a mathematical certainty.”

 

In retrospect, they would all have been better off if he'd not caved to some of the other magister's demands. But it was wrong to lay the blame entirely at Halward’s feet. They were all complicit in the ship’s demise, every single person in this room. And even if one party held more blame than the other, hating that person for their part now would not make the situation any less dire.

 

The captain staggered back a step as if he'd received a physical blow. The color had drained almost entirely from his face, and that of Hendyr's as well. "How much time?"

 

Once more Alexius consulted the plans before him, running numbers in his mind. It was something he hadn't thought he would need to consider, something he dearly wished he still didn't. "An hour. Two, at most."

 

"And how many aboard?"

 

Cassandra inhaled shakily. "Two thousand two hundred souls on board, Captain. Not including the,” her voice dropped, a note of disgust creeping in, “ _help_ traveling with our Tevinter guests."

 

Slaves. Was there even a point in totaling those numbers? Guilt gnawed at his insides as he thought of Elyan, how little a chance the boy would have even with the life vest Alexius had given him. Not that many of them had much of a chance, but the slaves would be the first left behind - if their masters didn't just throw them overboard first. Always the first to be sacrificed.

 

"I will gather some of my colleagues. We will do what we can to slow the water intake. Captain, I advise you to send out a distress call to any ship that might be within range. Any other mages willing to assist can send up flares."

 

Cullen nodded his head, and turned sharply to leave. On his way out the door he paused beside Halward. "I believe you'll get your headlines after all, Magister Pavus."

 

\- - -

 

The atrium was far too crowded. First class passengers of mainly Orlesian and Tevinter descent stood muttering irritably amongst each other. Some wore overcoats over their nightgowns while others remained still in their masks and evening formalwear, keeping up appearances even in the midst of the confusion. 

 

"Not surprised about the setbacks," Danarius said, making no effort to hide his irritation. "What else can you expect from a ship built in Orlais and captained by a dog lord?"

 

Beside him Hadriana sniggered. She adjusted her gloves and then glanced over her shoulder at the three slaves trailing behind them. "Go back and turn the furnace on in the suite, Orana. I want the room warm when I return, and a cup of tea."

 

"Of course, mistress." Orana curtsied, exchanged a worried look with Varania, and was on her way. Part of Fenris wanted to call her back. Nothing about this situation felt right, and he wanted to hold on to the only sources of familiarity left. Not to mention how unwise it was to split up when no one knew what was really going on. 

 

She disappeared up the grand staircase and Fenris was left staring after her, at the middle landing. A very different longing washed over him then. Had it really been only last night he'd met Hawke in that spot, where he'd taken the Fereldan's arm and was escorted to dinner - and then after, to the party below deck? So much had happened since then. He'd been right, that night; following Hawke had changed him. 

 

He wondered where Hawke was now, and the companions that had been traveling with the Fereldan. Isabela, Aveline and Merrill, all good women with the equal misfortune of traveling third class. They’d be the last to receive assistance if the worst happened. Fenris’s own chances of survival in that case were low. There were only so many lifeboats – not enough for half the passengers aboard, if he remembered Dorian’s words correctly. Fenris was not naïve enough to think there would be space for a slave.

 

"Magister Danarius."

 

Gereon Alexius strode down the stairs, a haunted expression sapping the life and color from his face. 

 

"Alexius, what in the Void is going on? The rumors beginning to circulate..." Danarius chuckled, shaking his head. "Orlesians have the most fascinating imaginations."

 

"I need your assistance," Alexius said, skipping all formality. "Your apprentice as well. I'm asking every able-bodied Mage to lend their talents to the crew below deck."

 

Danarius narrowed his eyes, drawing up beside Fenris. His hand closed lightly around the elf's elbow, but Fenris was too lost in the shadow of the iceberg in Alexius's eyes to notice. 

 

"I saw it," Fenris said, catching both magisters by surprise. "The iceberg. Please... What is happening?"

 

"Fenris," Danarius began, tone admonishing as his fingers tightened around his elbow. 

 

Alexius held his gaze for a long moment, and there was something apologetic in his eyes that dried up any sense of hope that remained in Fenris's reserve. "The ship will sink."

 

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Fenris swayed on his feet, sounds and color blurring together, none of it making sense. _Hawke_ _._ _Did Hawke know?_  It shouldn’t matter; Hawke had used him, betrayed him, and yet... Yet Fenris wanted to tear away from his master in search of the man, to verify his safety. He was the worst sort of fool, one who never learned from his mistakes.

 

"In an hour or so... all of this will be at the bottom of the Waking Sea."

 

"Sweet Maker."

 

Alexius looked from Danarius to Hadriana. "Please tell only who you must. I don't want to be responsible for a panic. Below deck, volunteers are helping to slow the water intake."

 

"Of course we'll assist," Danarius assured him. 

 

A sigh of relief, and Alexius patted Danarius on the shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. Take care of yourself."

 

When he was gone, Danarius turned to Hadriana. “We’re going outside.”

 

Fenris blinked. “Master – the mages,” he began to protest, only to stumble as he was yanked by the elbow.

 

“Do not question me, slave,” Danarius warned. “Hadriana!”

 

The woman jumped, looking from the direction Alexius had disappeared to the magister. She, at least, had the grace to appear regretful for going back on the promise to Alexius, but she did not argue against Danarius.

 

“The Somniatis is a lost cause,” Danarius said, pulling Fenris along with him through the crowd. The _click_ of Hadriana’s heels followed them closely. “Going down below deck now would be a waste of time. We’re getting to a boat.”

 

The night had only grown colder, and even the crowd of passengers gathered along the deck in their varying states of dress could not block out the chill wind whipping through the air. Fenris shivered, covered his ears against the scream of drills and steam as the crew worked to lower the lifeboats free of their davits.

 

“Move back!” someone hollered. “Andraste’s flaming sword, get back, damn you!”

 

More screams – human, this time – as the skiff on the deck above theirs fell loose of its securing on one side. It hung half-suspended over the lower deck, passengers ducking and throwing themselves out of the way lest it fall entirely. Fenris tore from his master’s hold without hesitation to join the small handful of men who’d come forward to help lower the boat the rest of the way.

 

The davit cranked, slowly lowering the boat from the end it was still secured while the men joined together to support the side with the broken ropes. There were too few of them volunteering to have been able to support the weight, but miraculously they did not falter. Fenris inhaled sharply as his lyrium ignited, unable to miss the distinct pulling sensation that heralded a sudden burst of magic. Somehow, someone had drawn from the lyrium in his veins, used it to amplify their abilities and cast a spell of fortification over the men.

 

After the boat was lowered safely to the ground, Fenris whipped around, looking for the source of the magic and surprised to find Varania with both hands outstretched, fingertips glowing faintly blue.

 

Danarius glanced between the two elves, clearly unimpressed. “Now is not the time for heroics. Fenris, you are to stay at my side. Is that clear?”

 

Fenris did not see the point of his master clinging so tightly. In no time at all his life would be forfeit, claimed by the icy depths of the Waking Sea. He did not miss the irony that he would soon be taken by the very fate Hawke had saved him from the first night aboard.

 

The boats were swung out, dangling precariously over the glassy water some hundred feet below.

 

“Women and children! Women and children only!” an officer shouted from the nearest loading point. He held a hand out to a young Altus girl, who stared at the lightly swinging lifeboat in terror. “Messere, please.”

 

The girl looked to the gentleman beside her, who was equally shaken. They embraced, the man kissing her forehead tenderly.

 

“You watch,” he said, voice shaking. “They’ll put us off on these silly boats to freeze and we’ll all be back on board by breakfast. Go now, amatus.”

 

They kissed again, and then the girl hesitantly took the officer’s waiting hand. Behind where she’d stood, a disorganized line had begun to form, people shoving and nudging to get to the railing first.

 

Danarius led them away, further down the deck where it was hopefully less crowded. A sudden burst of light startled fearful gasps from the crowds: a mage on the bridge, his staff held up toward the night sky, shooting up a red flare that exploded in the air loud as a thunderclap. The flare sent starbursts of twinkling light down on their location, and seemed to ignite a wave of panic. A rush of people flooding out from the interior of the ship, desperate to get to a boat or even just get a better idea of what was happening.

 

Toward the rear of the ship where they’d ended up it was less swarmed, but they all knew that would soon change as another flare burst in the sky. “You’ll board here,” Danarius said once they’d stopped. To Fenris’s amazement, Danarius shrugged out of the coat he’d been wearing and wrapped it around Fenris, pulling the hood over his head to hide the elf’s face. Fenris didn’t understand. After how he’d displeased his master why would Danarius attempt to smuggle him onto the raft with the women?

 

An officer beckoned Hadriana forward. “This way, Messeres.” He was not speaking just to Hadriana, but to Varania and Fenris as well.

 

Hadriana curled her lip. “Will the life boats not be seated according to class?”

 

Fenris stared at her, aghast. Was she truly so selfish? “There aren’t enough boats. Half the people on this ship are going to die.”

 

Danarius scoffed and yanked the hood down over Fenris’s eyes. “Not the better half.”

 

Fenris felt as if he’d been slapped. Another starburst of light in the air and the realization came with it. Hawke, a third class passenger, didn’t stand a chance – especially not if detained by the master of arms on the grounds of theft. Danarius hadn’t known about the _Somniatis_ sinking, no, but that didn’t change the fact that it had all been planned.

 

He looked up, meeting Danarius’s eyes for the first time without even an ounce of fear. The man was pathetic; so desperate to maintain a hold on Fenris that he’d condemn another to death in order to do it. He’d never owned Fenris’s heart. He never would. No amount of wealth or power or magic would ever change that. “You unimaginable bastard.”

 

“What did you say to me?”

 

One step back, two... The wind blew the hood of his cloak back from his face. Fenris looked from his master to Varania, who had to have been complicit in the plot. She stared back at him from where she stood now on the lifeboat, her eyes widening in comprehension. “Leto, don’t do this.”

 

“Goodbye, sister.”

 

“Leto!”

 

Varania’s scream was lost among the cacophony of wind and officers shouting. Fenris did not think of her, did not think of anything he ran except for the freedom that had been in his hands – the freedom Hawke had shown him he could take for himself – and Hawke. Hawke was somewhere on this ship, and Fenris would find him. Even if they only had minutes left, he would live that time with Hawke and no one else. He would be free.

 

A blast of ice cemented his feet to the wooden floor. Several people gasped in alarm at the display, but Fenris only growled, markings flickering in warning as Danarius seized him by the arms.

 

“Where do you think you’re going, slave? To _him_?” Fenris glared up at the magister defiantly, his body shaking with anger. Why couldn’t Danarius let him go? Why, even now, did he insist on hanging on so tightly? “To be a whore to a dog lord?”

 

Fenris spit at his feet. “I’d rather be his whore than your slave.”

 

A sudden burst of energy through the lyrium brands shattered the ice at his feet. Phasing into his spirit form, Fenris ripped away from Danarius’s grasp and was soon lost in the sea of passengers.

 

_I’m coming, Hawke._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr: @actual-pixie

**Author's Note:**

> Cry with me about Dragon Age: actual-pixie.tumblr.com


End file.
